


Crutches

by addesin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputation, Amputee!Marco, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Disability, Disabled Character, Discussion of Abortion, Explicit Language, M/M, Minor Krista Lenz | Historia Reiss/Ymir, Minor Levi/Erwin Smith, Past Jean Kirstein/Armin Arlert, Physical Disablity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Suicide mention, single parent!Jean, veteran!Marco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 63,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addesin/pseuds/addesin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco Bodt returns from a tour in Afghanistan one leg short. He has no idea what to do will his life now that the military is no longer an option. After his therapist suggests a service dog to help him deal with his PTSD, Marco finds himself the housemate of a young man named Jean Kirstein, a single father with harsh personality and an interesting story, who is one of the few people he's met who doesn't pity him for his disability. They spark a timid friendship, finding solace in each other's company after the isolation they both face given their individual situations. </p><p>Crutches can't do the walking for you, but they offer aid in replacement of total immobility. Jean may just be the crutch Marco needs to walk toward a more stable life. And before Jean knows it, Marco might be propping him up in return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing fan fiction since middle school. I'm an original fiction writer. I'm so sorry...
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://addesin.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk about the fic or just chat or whatever. My inbox is always open (and anon is always on if you're self-conscious or whatever)! c: Anything Crutches related is tagged under [fic: crutches](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-crutches) so feel free to track the tag or use it for any Crutches junk. 
> 
> Also: I've like to link the fan art for this fic [here](http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/91145586928/some-doodles-for-the-fic-crutches-by-addesin) and [here](http://amessyblog.tumblr.com/post/91828634460/scribbles-of-a-scene-for-a-fic-i-am-currently) because they make my kokoro doki doki still. Thank you so much again, kind artists for the arts. <3
> 
> And finally, [this](http://8tracks.com/addesin/crutches-mix#smart_id=dj:10906093) is the playlist I use while writing chapters for this fic, if you'd like to hear it. The songs are in no particular order but they're all important mood setter for different parts of the fic (some of which haven't happened yet teehee).
> 
> I'll add tags as they become relevant.  
> (also: I feel like I should mention if it's not already obvious that there are mentions of suicide, depression, death, gore/violence, and other bad things if that's an issue... )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco has a ridiculous amount of exposition that reveals literally nothing...  
> (Marco's point of view)

I wake with cold sweats, yanking sheets away, a small gasp of a scream forcing it's way from my throat as I find myself sitting up in bed. My body is clammy, tremors rippling through me, chest rising and falling dramatically. My eyes dart around, trying to place my surroundings, finding the cinder block walls and shaky iron-framed bunk beds unfamiliar. It takes me longer than I would have thought to recognize the veterans' shelter, but when I do, a heavy groan rumbles and bubbles its way up into the chilled, dry air. Raking a hand through my buzzed short hair, I pull my good leg up to my chest, resting an elbow against my knee. Luckily, I don't think I woke any of the men still sleeping around me.

I hadn't had time to dream when I was in Afghanistan. Any rest you got was a gift and you utilized it, impersonating the sleep of the dead. You didn't dare dream, didn't dare snore, didn't dare even move. Just curled up into a ball on your side or posed like a formaldehyde-stiffened corpse in a casket.

But back in the states, there was plenty of time for sleep. You find yourself tossing and turning until you start awake from the nightmares. Always nightmares. The terror of war doesn't let you escape in your unconscious state, even when you're thousands of miles away from the battlefield. Not when you're asleep, not even when the sun is up and you're walking around in the daylight.

I sigh heavily, yanking my wife-beater over my head, using it to wipe away the sweat that had accumulated on my shoulders, chest, abdomen. After tossing it to the foot of the bed, I begin unknotting the clasp I'd made of my right pant leg, pulling my sweatpants up to where my thigh meets my crotch, revealing the stump where a shapely, well-muscled leg used to be. Where there should have been knee and shin and calf and foot, there is nothing. It all just ends – maybe four inches above where my knee should have begun, I'd estimate.

Sometimes I still feel it. Like I try bending it or rolling my ankle or flexing my toes because they feel kind of stiff, until it just stops and I realize there is nothing there to bend or roll or flex in the first place. The scars still look fresh, the stitches having only been removed a few weeks ago. They're shades lighter than my own tan skin, and much pinker than my olive complexion. Still, it looks better than when I'd first returned to the states, and even better still than the exposed flesh and shattered bone it had been a few months ago. I still feel that, too, though it's usually at night, just before lights out. I lay there in bed, trying not to writhe in pain, but there's the distinct sensation of my entire leg being on fire, being stabbed hundreds of times, pins and needles in my non-existent foot especially – all the agony of having it blown to bits and ripped to shreds all over again.

Throwing my good leg over the edge of the mattress, I let my bare foot rest on the linoleum before reaching for a large duffle under the frame of the bed. Inside is the fake. My replacement limb, a cheap impostor, doesn't really look like a leg, but it keeps me out of a wheelchair. A simplified and malformed shape that vaguely resembled a foot attached to fat steel rod that is then fixed to a joint system which connects to a sort of large cup where my nub of a limb fits into. It's dreadfully uncomfortable and impossibly bulky, but it gets me around, with the help of a cane and some waddling. Finding comfortable shoes that adapt well to holding the stiff plastic foot is a bitch. But I can walk. Which is enough for me.

I fit the thick liner that keeps my leg into the prosthetic over my limb before adding a sock over that because my leg is still in the process of shrinking, the muscles that I needed for maneuvering my knee and calf slowly atrophying while the swelling from the wound goes down. From there, it's safe to pull the carbon fiber tube to me and push and pull it into place, hearing the clicks as the mechanism that locked the pin on the bottom of the liner into the prosthetic. From then, I can roll my pant leg down to just above the knee joint and stand, stomping the fake briefly to make sure it is safely secured, which only aches slightly.

Zipping up my duffle, I nudge it below the bed again and grab my cane from where it leans against the foot post of the bed. They'd offered me a crutch or forearm crutch or this, just to steady me out while I was still adjusting to the prosthetic, but I figured this one screamed “cripple” a little more quietly, though the way I wobble around is still pretty hard not to notice.

I'd lost more than my leg in Afghanistan. My sense of equilibrium is pretty much shot and my hearing in my right ear isn't much better. It goes in and out with tinnitus – the ringing occurring more often than not –, but my doctors are giving me a little more time to recover before they consider a hearing aid, unsure if it's temporary or not. They had picked most of the shrapnel out of me, but I still have aches and the occasional stab of pain like there is something still in me – especially in my right shoulder. For that reason, I try not to reach that arm higher than chest-level.  
Suffice to say I'm pretty fucked up.

I still have yesterday's T-shirt draped over the head of the bed so I lean against the bedpost to have both hands so I can pull it over my head and grab my wallet and phone from beneath my pillow to stuff into the pocket of my sweats.

Hobbling through the maze of beds, I flinch each time my prosthetic makes a dull thud as it falls on the linoleum – threatening to wake the sleeping bodies around me. I feel as if I should have gotten used to it by now, but alas, no such luck. Once I've safely escaped the dark, cramped room, I make the trek through the cluster of vending machines at the end of the hall. I don't have an appetite but a cup of coffee would help clear my head since I'm obviously not going to be able to get back to sleep. I deposit a few coins into the coffee machine and grab a Styrofoam cup from the dispenser before setting it beneath the nozzle and requesting a French Vanilla cappuccino.

“What are you doing awake, Marco?”

I jump and my heart flies to my throat. I was never particularly jumpy before. I think that made me a better soldier. But ever since I've returned from deployment, I've become a skittish mess. I blame the silence. So much more silence than I've become accustom to. You never really appreciate how quiet life in America is until you've felt the ground quake under you as a RPG sends Blackhawks hurtling down on top of you and bullets whizzing past your ears and men screaming and crying for their moms. I shudder at the memories, slowly turning on my good heel, letting my fake limb make a wide arc as I turn.

“Commander,” I gulp, standing a little straighter. It's funny... We're both supposed to be civilians now. Veterans, but civilians. Still, old habits are hard to kick. He looks as much of a commander as ever. Tall, stoic, chiseled features and sharp, intelligent blue eyes. His usually neat, blond hair is slightly disheveled from sleep, but not enough to be considered messy. Yes, ever the leader figure.

“I've startled you,” Commander Smith announces, not really speaking to me but saying it all the same. My good shoulder raises and falls just barely. He leans back, appraising me by looking down his nose at me. It's not condescending the way it would be with anyone else. Honestly, I don't think he realizes what he looks like as he's doing this. “Nightmares,” he prescribes after a minute of silence between us.

Without really meaning to, I sigh, but the usually involuntary quirk of my lips appears as I attempt to brush them off, turning to grab my coffee and add cream and sugar as if it isn't already sweet enough.

“What about you, Commander?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“Nightmares,” he repeats before adding, “And I've told you a hundred times to call me Erwin.”

“I know,” I admit, my smile fading but not disappearing entirely as I turn back to him after I've made my drink sufficiently sweet. Sweet enough to kill. Out of the few who had survived in our squad, it was only me that he insisted call him by his first name. Though, I suppose I had saved his life. Well, most of it.

Like me, he was one limb short. His right arm ends mid-bicep. But we both would be dead had I not done what I did. I move away from the station, leaning against the wall adjacent to it as Erwin assumes my former position and makes himself a cup. If he struggles with the limitations of only being able to use one limb, I can't tell...

He makes his coffee black. No extra frivolities.

We remain silent until he takes the first sip of his steaming beverage, makes a face at it and takes a bigger gulp.

“So what about you?” he asks. “What do you dream about?”

I offer another half shrug. We had both seen most of the same things. What does it matter what the dreams are about? They're all awful. Yet I open my mouth anyway. “Do you remember that village? The one with the soccer field?”

It had been close to the end of our fourth mission. On our way back, we cut through a village we knew was peaceful. We requested water and some time to tend to our injured. They had been happy to help, even offering the service of their two doctors. One, a young man who had been born there and returned after graduating from medical school in a bigger city. The other, a black man in his mid-thirties who had come there just for the hell of it, just wanting to help out. While our wounded comrades were being treated and we refueled, a few of the guys joined some kids on the soccer field. We had gotten our asses kicked, somehow, by a bunch of kids.

That game is one of the better memories from that year. The rest of that day is one of the worst. It's funny how that can happen. The good and the bad standing so close together, you can hardly tell them apart any more. I feel my jaw clench, willing my face to remain impassive.

“Yeah,” Erwin grunts, eyes dark as he stares into the depths of his coffee. I remember his crossed arms as he stood on the sidelines, heckling a kid named Thomas and I for letting a skinny Afghan kid slip between the both of us toward the goal, his hair tousled by the wind, and a rare grin plastered on his face. I remember a lot of things from that day…

“I see their faces, sometimes. The smiles, the laughs. Then I see the panic. I see their little fingers clutching my uniform. I see the blood, the fire, the dirt fucking everywhere.”

“Me, too,” Erwin says simply, gripping his cup a little tighter. We both let out deep breaths.  
We should never have let our guard down.

“You grabbed that one, didn't you? On our way out,” Erwin pipes up suddenly, “What ever happened to that kid?”

Another shrug. Maybe my smile becomes just a little sadder. “I handed him off to somebody when we got back to base. Never saw him again. Fuck, who knows?” I pause briefly, then sigh. Might as well just come out with it.

“Do you ever dream about the...” I ask, returning to the previous subject.

“Nah. Don't remember a lick of it.” Erwin's deep voice softens. “It's all a blank until waking up after the operation.”

“I dream of that, too. Especially the screams. Sometimes I hear them while I'm awake. Your screams. Mine. All of them.”

Erwin nods. He probably has his own screams that ring out in his sleep. Probably even more than me. This had been his fifth tour.

We drink in silence for a while- me sipping halfheartedly, Erwin taking big gulps like he doesn't really want to taste the bitter coffee and getting multiple refills. The silence makes me nervous but I don't let Erwin in on it. It's easier this way, not worrying people over it. The panic is a heavy, crushing reminder in my chest but I mask it with a pleasant, if not terse smile.

“Oh, by the way,” Erwin said, startling me for the second time. “Levi told me he had some things to discuss with you during your appointment today. New treatment, and such.”

“Isn't my treatment supposed to be confidential?” I lean a little more heavily on my prosthetic than I had before, wanting to take some of the weight off of my right arm that holds a white-knuckled grip onto the cane. It makes me stand a little taller, but I'm still nowhere near Erwin's height.

“Yes, well,” Erwin replies, for the most part looking unashamed, though his eyes do express pity as he glances down at me. He adopts a more formal tone after being found out for meddling in my affairs. Not that I mind so much, if it's him, just that it's a little embarrassing – the idea of my commander and my therapist talking about me when I'm not around. “I may have expressed concern for your mental state... I offered an... unconventional solution to the problem and Levi seemed to agree with me.”

I may have nodded but my mind is wandering, still stuck on the idea of the two holding a discussion on my wellbeing. “Why were you with Levi, anyway?” I muse, more to myself, but not exactly quietly. “You're not one of his patients... Are you?”

“No,” Erwin admits. “I have another psychiatrist. Levi and I are...” He seems dazed, his vision losing focus like he's in a different place, not here with me. But a small twitch of a smile graces his features – rare for him. “Well...” He doesn't finish, smiling down at me and we share a knowing glance as a pink blooms across his fair cheeks. I mentally note not to bring it up with him again. It's none of my business, but more importantly, well, habits are hard to kick. You just don't talk about it.

I glance down at my now cold drink. “Well, thanks for worrying about me, commander, but...”

“Erwin.” He tells me yet again. I crack a grin because we both know I won't say it. He returns it, pushing off the wall to throw away his now empty cup. “Yes, it would be terrible if Levi's license were put in jeopardy because of our... talks.” Turning back to me, he claps a hand on my shoulder. “But I still feel responsible for my men.” I nod, look at my feet, waiting until he squeezes my good shoulder and lets go, until he's begun to meander back down the hall, to look up and watch him leave.

I wonder what it's like for him. Coming home less one arm, the PTSD, the depression, the physical therapy along with the counseling sessions, all the same as me, but at the same time, having it so different. Having a place to go home to, someone to talk to at the end of the day and to hold and make love to. Even a short, foul mouthed, hard-ass like... What is he doing here this early in the morning, anyway? It's nearly 0400 and he's wandering around the veteran's shelter as if he has nothing better to do. Then again, maybe he doesn't. Who knows what goes through his head sometimes.

* * *

I lower myself carefully into the settee in Levi's office, not only because of my instability on a false limb but also because I hope to spare myself the murderous glare Levi gives anyone who dares move haphazardly in his tidy office. And yet, for someone with a stick shoved so far up his ass, it's surprisingly easy to open up to this man. Maybe because he speaks so casually, and doesn't bother to beat around the bush for anything. Some might call that a character flaw but I have always found it particularly attractive in a person. It's a gift I haven't been blessed with.

“Marco,” Levi says, seated in a leather club chair that looks more like a throne for him. He doesn't look up from the pad he's scribbling on but I nod anyway, propping my cane against the arm of the settee. “How's the leg?” As if he can read my mind.

I give my usual half shrug. “Can I take it off?”

He glances up before offering me a microfiber towel from the drawer of his side table. “Don't get any sweat on my couch,” is all he says as I take the towel. We sit in silence for a moment as I disassemble, removing layers from my residual limb until I can tie the end of my pant leg into a knot again to keep it from flopping around. As I do, he presses a few buttons on a small sound system and white noise begins to play in the back ground. Something to keep me calm and not as on edge by the silence. Then I wipe down the inside of my silicone liner which does in fact accumulate a thin layer of sweat inside. After I have stuffed the liner and extra socks into the cup of the leg and stand it up by my cane, Levi looks up at me. I drape the towel across my prosthetic, knowing Levi won't take it back until I've washed it.

“How have you been?” he says this time.

“The usual. Nothing much has changed.” There's no point in lying to him. I lean back, absently massaging the end of my stump through the fabric of my sweatpants where it's sore from bearing my weight all day.

“Have you been taking your medication?”

“Yeah.” I look at the ceiling, at the endless rotation of the ceiling fan above us, trying to imagine away Levi's intense gaze. “I mean, it's not people, any more. Well, not exactly. I don't feel as angry any more, I guess. Just... scared. All the time. And. Tired. I still can't make it through the night.”  
Levi nods.

I clear my throat, looking down at him. Without giving it much thought, I open my mouth. “Commander said you had a new idea,” I note as absently as possible. But I can't help but itch at my nose nervously. “Something to help my problems.”

Levi eyes me, then looks down at his pad, scribbling furiously. I'm sure I hear, “Fucking loud mouthed old man,” before he looks up at me, face giving away nothing. “Yes, well, I do think this method would be especially beneficial for you in particular, but... Unfortunately, I cannot get my thick-headed superiors to make an exception for your case.”

I blink. It's hard the process the information when I've got so little to work with. “An exception on..?”

“This facility houses veterans with no place to go, or who require serious medical and mental attention. And as the higher-ups love to remind me 'it's not a dog pound.'” He assumes a gruff, rusty voice for the last statement, as if he's mimicking someone, so I assume it's a direct quote from one of his bosses.

“Dog pound, sir?” I feel stupid just repeating everything he says back to him, but there's little else I can do.

“You know what a service dog is, don't you, Bodt?” Levi shoots me a glare that confirms my suspicion that he's not particularly impressed with my current intelligence.

“Yes, sir,” I chirp, sitting up straight. “But I'm not blind or... I mean, I'm not in a wheelchair or epileptic or any off that stuff.”

Levi sighs. “But you do have a particular intense case of post-traumatic stress. Understandably, of course. Being alone all the damn time doesn't help. I think a companion would be good for you. These dogs are trained to be that companion. It would go everywhere you do, would keep you company, wake you up when you're having one of your night terrors and sit with you as you recuperate emotionally. It would keep you grounded as well, pull you out of your flashbacks and grab your attention when you get distracted by planes overhead and loud noises. Do you understand?”

“Yeah...” I blink. “But –”

“Yes, despite how much potential this has of helping you, the assholes up in management worry about an animal in the facility. Not that I'm thrilled by the idea of a flea-ridden mutt in my office, but Christ, if it will help one of my patients...” He trails off, looking out the window as if deep in thought. Then, after a moment of silence between us, “Are you sure you won't go home to your parents?”

“Yes.” The idea of being a burden to my parents, who I've already caused enough problems for what with all my medical bills, is almost as horrifying as being shipped back off overseas. Almost.

Levi huffs, obviously annoyed. “What about a friend? Is there anyone you could stay with outside of the shelter?”

I cross my right arm over my chest and use the left to scratch my nose. “I... I wouldn't want to burden anyone,” I mumble.

“What about your cousin? The one who drives you to your appointments with the prosthetist?”

“Ymir?” I yelped. “She lives in a one-bedroom apartment. Plus, I'm not sure her landlord allows pets...”

“Shit.”

There's another prolonged spell of silence. Nothing but the gentle white noise fills the air, dribbling from the sound system.

“Maybe... I could ask her if she has a friend who needs a roommate? But...” I pause, scratching at my nose again, and before I can stifle it, a nervous chuckle leaves me. Levi looks up, expectant. “Who's gonna want a roommate who can't work? I'm sure they would get tired of me always being there, only leaving to go to doctor's appointments.”

“Well,” Levi responds. “I'm sure if you are approved, within time, you'll be able to go out in public again without losing your shit.”

I nod absently.

“So you'll fill out the application?” Levi prompts, leaning forward and showing sincere interest in our conversation for the first time today.

I haven't even finished nodding before Levi is thrusting a clipboard with a printed out application for the program into my hands. Across the top of the sheet is an emblem that shows a blue silhouette of vaguely soldier-like human figure kneeling to “shake hands” with a dog. Beside it, in all caps font read the words “Dog Tag Angels” and, below that, “rescue dogs to rescue heroes.” I feel a corner of my mouth rise involuntarily, as I set pen to paper and fill out my name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that Marco never got to meet Erwin and Levi... That made me kind of sad. Everything about Marco makes me sad... lol


	2. Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean is immensely more generous than canon...  
> (Jean's point of view)

“Leo, let's _go_ ,” I groan, crossing my arms with the kid's backpack in hand as he chats with his half-pint friends. Ever the people-person. God knows where he gets it from. Certainly not me. He is the spitting image of me at his age, save his smooth black hair. That came from her. But the rest is all me. But that his personality. That one's a mystery. Always so chipper. A little ball of sunshine. It catches me off guard, more often than not.

“Coming, Daddy!” Leo cried suddenly, jogging to my side so he can take my hand. “I was just saying to bye to Hannah.”

I nod, not wanting to chew him out when he's in such a good mood. Instead, I hook the strap of his tiny backpack over my shoulder and sweep him up on my arms, easily hitching him on my hip, all in one fluid motion. Even as we walk out into the parking-lot, away from the row of kids still waiting for their parents, Leo is still waving to his classmates. And as I glance over my shoulder, I realize with a sense of amazement, nearly all of them wave back. His popularity and ability to make friends is definitely another mystery trait that didn't come from my genes. She'd certainly had a charisma about her, I recall absently, but, well, friends weren't her strong suit any more than they are mine.

At the car, I help Leo into the back seat. Lately, though, he has insisted on buckling himself in. Exerting his independence or something. I don't know. I leave his Spiderman backpack with him back there before climbing into the driver's seat and shoving the key into the ignition.

“Daddy, the window!” I hear from the backseat.

“Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec,” I call over my shoulder, fiddling with the radio briefly and buckling in before I roll down the rear window so Leo can call out to his friends as we circle past the sidewalk again. Definitely far too happy to be a Kirstein.

“Any homework?” I ask once we're out of the lot and onto the street. Not that kindergartners get much homework but, sometimes they send home little worksheets so the kids will feel productive or something. Or just to get them used to the mindless process they'll be practicing for the next twelve plus years.

“Miss Rico gave us a coloring page today. Is that homework?”

“Do you have to turn it back in for a grade?” I glance at my son in the rear view mirror as we stop at a light. He's looking out the window, letting the wind blow through his hair as he observes a restaurant at the corner of the intersection.

“I don't think so,” he says after a minute, finding my eyes in the mirror. Big hazel eyes. I can't really see it from here, but I know there are flecks of charcoal mingling with that warm amber. That's another thing he borrowed from her.

I sigh, easing into the gas as the light flickers to green. “Then, probably not.”

“Daddy, weren't you supposed to turn at that light?”

“Yeah. But today we're making a stop somewhere else before we go home.”

There's no response. Maybe he can hear the tension in my voice and chooses not to push the matter. There's a few minutes of silence before we pull into a strip mall parking lot.

There's a dry cleaner and a tanning salon on each end of the east wing, but in between that, a cafe, where I'm supposed to meet an acquaintance from high school who I usually only see at the few friendly gatherings I attend once in a while.

“C'mon, punk,” I sigh, letting Leo out of the car. He looks around but remains silent, choosing instead to latch onto the hem of my T-shirt. I rest a hand on his head briefly before slamming the car door and leading him to the cafe. “Want some hot chocolate?” He nods absently, taking in his surroundings.

As soon as we're through the door, I hear a boisterous, “There he is!” Before my eyes, a tall, tan woman is pushing to her feet, striding across the room to slug my arm. “You were supposed to be here at 3:30.” She doesn't sound particularly angry. Slightly annoyed, maybe, but in a good-natured way.

“Yeah, yeah,” I growl. “Couldn't pull this punk away from his friends.” I pat Leo on the head again and he smiles, unashamed. Truth be told, I had been a few minutes late picking up Leo, but she doesn't need to know that. And literally nobody can get mad at that face of his. _Why can't that work for me?_ I wonder wistfully. 

“Aunt Ymir!” Leo chirps.

“Hey, little monster!” Before either of us know what's going on, Ymir has him up on her hip, taking him back to her table, I'd assume. Over her shoulder, she commands, “You go order. I'll watch the monster.” Then, quieter, as the distance between us grows: “So you been giving your dad hell?” and Leo's innocent giggle.

I smile absently, heading to the counter to order myself a coffee and something for Leo.

By the time I get to where Ymir is seated with Leo on her lap, the kid is picking away at one of her muffins, telling her about his day.

It's only once I've sat down that I notice Historia sitting across from me and an oddly familiar male looking rather uncomfortable beside her. The petite blonde that is Ymir's best friend – and definitely not her girlfriend (because anybody really believed that crock of shit) – and I share a nod before I offer a half-hearted wave at the guy across the table. He gives me an awkward but friendly smile before looking down at his drink as I take a messy, crumbly bite out of a raspberry scone.

“So, who’s this?” I ask with a full mouth. Usually I have better manners. But it's been a shitty day, and I just can't be bothered to care. The guy clears his throat as Ymir opens her mouth, and it's that split second before she's talking that I realize why he has a faint familiarity about him. Tan skin, brown hair and eyes, athletic build, and most importantly freckles splattered intricately across his cheeks. He couldn't look more like Ymir if he grew breasts before my eyes.

“My cousin, Marco. Marco, this is Jean, the one I was telling you about from high school.”

Marco pushes to his feet, bracing himself heavily on the table to reach across and offer me his hand. I'm not sure why, but I lift my butt a little off the seat, too, even though I can easily reach him. He offers a kind smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes, but I can only gape at him stupidly.

“Hi,” he offers. I find myself examining him even after we both settle back down. He's got cute features, but looks a little older than Historia or I, or even Ymir, who holds a year over both of us. He can't be older than twenty eight at the most, I think. Probably not even that. Most of his age is in his eyes. They hold a hint of innocence and youth, yet somehow he reminded me of that horribly sad look my Granddad had after Grandma died. Like he'd been through a lot.

“Sooo...” Ymir trails off. Then, in a rush: “I'm just gonna come out and say it. MarcogothislegblownskyhighinAfghanistan.” Marco had been sipping his coffee and sputters as soon as the words left her mouth, choking and dribbling all over his Navy T-shirt. My eyes shoot open as I glance down at the table while he was cleaning himself off and apologizing – as if I have the X-ray vision to see right through the table at his leg, or I guess... lack thereof?

“Well that fuckin' sucks,” is all I can think to say.

Marco glances up at me from dabbing at his shirt. “Yeah,” he chuckles, eyes softening.

“Mr. Bodt, you only have one leg?” Leo pipes in suddenly, eyes wide. “How do you walk?”

Without missing a beat, Marco smiles down at my son, “I have this thing called a 'prosthetic' that's kind of like my old leg, only made out of metal.”

Leo's eyes golike saucers and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “So are you a cyborg?” he exclaims gleefully. He's getting into that phase. I cover my mouth with embarrassment.

Marco laughs. “Kind of, but not exactly.”

I guess I should be surprised that that this man is answering my child's invasive questions so calmly. But then again, listening to him talk, the amiable composure of his voice, soft and soothing, even if he seems visibly uncomfortable, it's hard to imagine him getting ruffled by much of anything.

“Can I see?” Leo cries, pushing to his knees in Ymir's lap.

“Maybe later, Leo,” I intervene before Marco can open his mouth. “When we leave, he can show you. We've got some stuff to talk about first.” Leo looks mildly disappointed but nods, though he doesn't stop eyeing Marco, who offers a sweet smile in return. I find myself watching him, too, as Ymir begins talking again, barely paying her any mind. He's got a tenderness about him. A soft vulnerability that's oddly endearing despite the fact that below the jaw he's all cut, chiseled muscles trying to bust out of his faded, blue T-shirt.

“Jean, are you listening?” Ymir snaps abruptly.

Marco's eyes leave Leo to meet mine and we exchanged surprised, wide-eyed gazes before I swiftly turn to face Ymir. “What was that?”

As Ymir sighs in annoyance and I hear Historia giggle from across from me, but my eyes wander back to Marco despite myself. As soon as our eyes meet, he looks down hastily, a hint of pink coloring his freckled cheeks as he fidgets in his seat, but he's got a faint smile plastered on his face.

“Well, the things is,” Ymir sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose briefly. “Marco needs a place to stay and, well, you've seen my place. It's not like I have room for him! And he won't go back to my aunt's house because I don't fucking know why, but he can't live alone or own a car or use public transportation and he's got all these medications and he recently got approved for a service dog, but he can't have a dog where he's staying now and...”

She keeps going, talking in a confused, tangled mess but I pick out the important parts, piecing them together. As she goes on, Marco's head dips lower and lower while the faint blush he'd started with blazes across his face and ears as he looks down in shame. I imagine having all your laundry aired out for a stranger can't be the biggest confidence booster.

“So you need a place to stay?” I interrupt Ymir to speak directly to him.

Our eyes meet again as he glances up at me. I don't know why, but I find myself smiling at him. After all, he doesn't seem like a bad guy. He swallows visibly, straightening out slightly, though his eyes flit between me and his mug of coffee intermittently.

“I... I know it's a lot to ask of a stranger...” the guy admits with a shaky huff, scratching his nose compulsively.

I shrug. “It's not like you would be a burden,” I leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, not missing the way Marco visibly reacts, as if letting out a sigh of relief. “We've got plenty of space at my house, and I don't work a lot of hours. You said you're getting a dog soon?” He nods briefly, eyes cast down again. “What about stairs and shit like that?”

“I'll be okay,” Marco chirped, eyes widening. “I mean, I'll get better with time.”

“Well, I work while Leo is at school, so you'd have the house to yourself for most of the day, but if you're okay with that, then... I think we could work out the kinks.” 

A voice in the back of my head says I'm moving at this too quickly. After all, I hardly know the guy, and I'm going to be letting him in the same house as my son, the only person I have in this world. And yet, at the same time, I couldn't imagine this Marco guy harming a fly. Even if he was a soldier. Even if he could probably snap my neck with those big, meaty arms of his. Even if he'd held a gun in his hand, fired shots at another man across a desert – or whatever the fuck is in Afghanistan. He has such a gentle presence, it's hard to imagine any of that coming from him.

Ymir grins, reaching over to slap Marco on the arm. He flinches, chuckling nervously. “See? This dweeb may be an asshole, but he's a good guy.”

I roll my eyes. Rather than engage her, which will only lead to bickering, I settle for grabbing a napkin from the dispenser in the center of the table to wipe Leo's crumb riddled chin. He looked up at me, then at Marco. “Is Mr. Bodt going to come live with us, Daddy?” he asked, though until now he's shown no interest to the conversation.

“You can just call me Marco,” the other man says gentle while I'm scrubbing at his face.

“Yeah, he's going to come stay with us –”

“Just until I'm stable enough to stand on my own,” Marco jumps in to clarify.

I nod absently, folding the dirty napkin into countless little squares, but Leo says, “You can stay as long as you want. We've got a _really_ big house!” Marco glances at me as if for confirmation, and I manage not to waver, quirking my lips in a crooked smile. Some company in that big, old house might actually be welcome for a change.

* * *

In the bath that night, as I'm scrubbing his hair, Leo pipes up, “I think Mom would like Marco.”

I blink, surprised for a moment before releasing his hair to let him dunk his head beneath the water. “What makes you say that?”

“I dunno. He's just nice, is all.” Leo sweeps his bangs from his face, looking up at me. “You, now.”

I nod, squeezing generous dollop of shampoo into Leo's small hand and letting him stand in front of me, thigh deep in water as he lathers up my undercut, sliding his flat palm up and down the prickly shave sides before tangling his fingers into the longer top.

“What did you think of his leg?” I inquire absently before submerging my head briefly as well.

“It's so cool! Like a robot.” Leo plops back down, playing with the loofah in the water.

I snicker, recognizing the similarity of the word to his surname. _Robodt,_ I muse to myself wiping my eyes clear of water. I stifle the giggles quickly. “Don't bring it up with him so much, okay? It's probably a sore subject.”

“Why?” Leo doesn't look up, instead grabbing the bottle of body wash, though the bottle is big enough that he has to hold it with both arms while I hold the loofah for him so he can squeeze a generous amount of the contents onto it.

“Because he didn't get it for fun,” I explain, beginning to wash his back now. “Something really scary happened to him that made him lose his real leg. He probably doesn't want to think about it all the time.”

“Oh. Like you don't like talking about Mom,” Leo says matter-of-factly.

I purse my lips briefly, humming in agreement. I don't dwell on it. Try not to as much as possible, at least. Even now, I'm distracting myself with thoughts of Marco, how we'll adjust to life with him.

Ymir had offered to still take him to his appointments – medical check-ups, therapist sessions, something called “prosthetist” check-ups, a whole slew of shit – but I figure as long as they're scheduled for after four o'clock, I can take him. Oddly enough, it doesn't feel like I'm just jumping on a charity case, though a sneaking suspicion tells me that's what I should be calling it. No, he's a roommate who simply needs a little more help with stuff than your average guy.

He'd insisted on paying rent, even when I told him not to worry about it. Not until I told him the situation with the house, it being her grandparents', the mortgage already being paid off. Only then did he back off. But even then, it took a lot more persuasion than it should have to tell the guy he didn't need to worry about any of that, that I can easily cover utilities. After some haggling, we compromised at him buying groceries every other week, though I still get uncomfortable with the thought of him using his disability benefits to feed my son and me. He's more than earned it after all. But I think he just wants to be useful, which is more than admirable. 

“Daddy, can I do your back?” I'm pulled from my thoughts by Leo's big golden eyes, with their charcoal flecks, so close to mine, but not quite. Nodding absently, I lift him from the water to position him behind me so he can scrub at my back, drawing my knees up so I can rest my elbows on them, hunching over myself, curious as to exactly what changes Marco Bodt would bring to our lives.

* * *

At first, I think it's a child behind the wheel. As a Crown Vic pulls up to my curb, I honestly think a sour-faced child is Marco Bodt's chauffeur. It's not until both men get out of the car that I realize, no, this man is most definitely in at least his mid- to late-thirties, not a twelve year old like he first appeared, but he's incredibly short, even unassuming if you take his perpetual bitch face out of the equation.

Marco looks up at me and I down at him from the porch. We exchange nervous smiles until Leo comes crashing out the house, letting the screen door slap loudly against the siding in his wake, leaping onto the railing of the porch to call, “Marco!” 

Marco waves at him until the short man hastily shoves him out of the way so he can get to the back door of the car, yanking it open to let out what looks like a fluffy golden retriever my aunt had when I was a kid, at least from this distance. Marco grins down at the dog as it calmly stands before him, watching closely as Marco hooks a leash to his black collar and then attaches said leash to a loose harness he's wearing. Hands free, I note with amusement.

“Daddy, look!” Leo calls, pointing at the dog.

Marco then takes a military-issue duffle bag from the midget beside him and, after they share a few words, begins moving slowly and unevenly toward us, cautious when putting weight on his right side while leaning heavily on a cane as he makes his way toward us.

“Hi!” he says once he reaches the steps of the porch, clamping onto the railing to help himself up.

“Do you need help with anything?” I ask, but my eyes are on the dog, which looks a little stranger the closer it becomes. It's greyer than most retrievers, with piercing blue eyes. His gaze flits between where he's walking and Marco, sometimes sniffing whatever is in reach but mostly keeping an eye on his companion.

“No, Levi's got it. Thank you, though,” Marco says. He looks cheerful, but there's a strain in his voice. It's a small eternity before he's standing before me, and he looks relieved to be able to drop the bag at his feet. I look up at him, crossing my arms and grinning. Was he taller than me before? Well, it isn't by much, but enough that when we stand face-to-face like this, I have to tilt my head back to look upon his face.

“Marco, Marco!” We both clear our throats, having not realized we had been standing there in silence for more than really necessary. As Leo pounces to Marco's side, eyeing the dog in excitement, the short angry fellow marches straight into my house with two large boxes in hand. I would be more offended if not for the shock that he can lift such weight given his size.

“This is Titan,” Marco says, resting his hand on the dogs head. I vaguely realize that Leo had been asking him about the dog but I guess I had zoned out while examining the stranger parading through my house. “He's a golden-retriever husky mix.” That explains his strange eyes and the way his coat lacks the usual “golden” part of a golden retriever, I note. The dog presses against Marco's good leg, but stretches his neck to sniff at Leo, as if attempting to be polite. Leo giggles.

“Don't bother the dog too much,” I warn the boy, brushing his hair from his eyes. He needs a haircut. “Titan has to be able to pay attention to Marco so you can't distract him too often, okay?”

“Okay.” Leo nods and Marco smiles at me, gratitude in his eyes. “Can I pet him, though?”

“Sure,” Marco says and Leo inches forward, rubbing the top of the dog's head.

We stand in silence for a moment before Marco's ride reappears. “Levi,” he says simply holding a hand out to me as soon as he's through the door. “Marco's psychiatrist.”

I shake it without thinking. “Jean Kirstein.” So that's what his relationship is to the guy. I can't imagine this tiny creature being a shrink. Especially given the foul look on his face. Nothing about him exactly screams “Sigmund Freud.” Just pissed off and maybe a little tired. But mostly just pissed.

“I'm putting my patient in your care, so you best not fuck it up,” the man says gruffly, wiping his hand on a kerchief he had produced from thin air. Were my hands grubby? I glanced down at the right one but it looks even cleaner than usual considering I'd just finished the dishes; there isn't even dirt beneath my blunt nails. He marches back to his car without another word, only waving by way of raising his hand when Marco calls a goodbye after him.

“Does he hate me?” I ask, not really meaning to say it aloud. But there the question is, hanging in the air.

Marco laughs nervously. “Nah, he's like that with everyone.”

I nod, and we watch the guy start up his car and pull away from the curb. It isn't until he turns onto the main street that we bring our attention back to each other.

“So, lemme give you the grand tour,” I sigh, miming an exaggerated gesture of welcoming. Marco chuckles again, bending at a snail's pace so he can grab his bag without toppling over. I don't mind waiting for him, but I can feel the embarrassment he exudes as he visibly struggles with the bag before looping it over his shoulder and hobbling toward the door. Best not to baby him, though, I note. If it were me, I'd only be more humiliated by the help.

I guide him around, showing him the first floor, where the parlor, living room, kitchen, dining room, and den are. He marvels at the size of the place, reminding me of when we first moved in here. It hadn't looked quite as lived in as it does now, which made it seem even bigger. It's certainly too much for only three people. Who even needs a parlor, living room, and a den? Apparently, we do. I show him where the bathroom is as well before we head upstairs to where there are five bedrooms. Until now, the only two to be used were mine – the master bedroom – and Leo's.

Leo and I had spent most of the day setting up the guest bedroom across from his, putting sheets on the bed, assembling the dresser and desk I had been putting off since we had moved into the house six and a half years ago. There are curtains now, a full length mirror on the closet door and a trash bin in the corner. After pointing out to him which rooms are which and where the bathroom is, we lead him in and Leo bee-lines to the bed, flopping down on the fluffy blue comforter.

“Closet is there.” I point to one corner of the room where there is a door. “If you need anything else, just let me know. It wouldn't be any trouble to take you shopping.”

Marco drops the bag heavily at the door with a dramatic thump before he begins wandering around, stopping at the window. It looks out over the front yard, toward the street, being in the direct front-center of the house. He glances back at me, a tight smile on his face, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, Jean.”

“No prob, man.” I shrug, glancing down at Titan who whines, eyes trained carefully on Marco. It's been two weeks since we first met, I note absently, mind wandering. Wow. Shifting gears quickly, I pipe up “Hey, you wanna order a pizza? I don't feel like cooking tonight. Fucking beat from putting that damn desk together!”

I dig my phone out of my pocket, pulling up the local Domino's website.

“That would be... great,” Marco manages, his smile becoming a little more sincere.

“I'll make the order, then we can move your shit up here while we wait,” I tell him, perching on the edge of his bed so I can fiddle with my phone.

Marco nods. “Sounds like a plan,” he sighs, joining me so we can peer at the options for ordering, trying to settle on something.

Leo latches onto my back so he can see, too, and Titan settles down at Marco's feet, watching him carefully and it feels almost natural. I can imagine spending plenty of Saturday nights like this. 

Even with his nervous nature, Marco has a charisma about him that is oddly soothing. His voice, his mannerisms, everything about him is just so tame. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, and as if he feels my eyes on him, he glances back, pricking up the corners of his lips slightly. I wonder if this atmosphere was as calming for him as it was for me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Erwin's title to Commander in the prologue... I don't know why I wrote it as Captain at first... Probably because I wrote the first chapter at four in the morning.
> 
> Also, fun story: so as I was preparing this chapter and as I wrote it, I had really settled on naming Jean's son Theo. I thought it was fucking brilliant and I was so proud of myself. Then, near the end of the cafe scene, I'm typing away and just mid-sentence, I freeze and just hiss "Fucking Wisteria." Because, of course, Marco and Jean's children are named Alex and Theo in the Wisteria!verse (if you haven't read it, read that shit right fucking now, omg). I was so upset and of course didn't want to take Theo from the story's lovely author who put so much effort into her fics so after a mind numbing hour of looking at names and being pissed off by every one because nothing compares to Theo, what do I do? Change the "th" to a "l." Fucking genius. Seriously though, literally nothing else fit, I'm so upset. lol. I feel like such an ass over this.


	3. Midnight Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco acts like he's guilty of something indecent. Wink...  
> (Marco's point of view)

I knew I was in trouble as soon as I saw Jean Kirstein walk through the door. Jean Kirstein with his piercing amber eyes and lean body and long, long legs. My breath had caught in my throat as Ymir pointed him out. He was unreal. Angular features and sharp eyes, perfect arching brows, long nose, and thin but nicely shaped lips And that was just his face. Below that was a thin figure that made me want to melt into the floor. The cardigan he wore was pushed up to his elbows, revealing toned arms and the V-neck beneath that made his well-defined pectorals very apparent. Everything about him held a subtle whisper of danger but it was buried deep beneath layers of maturity that seemed well beyond his years – as if he had once been a wild teenager that was tamed too quickly.

I was fucked, and I knew it. Stumbling on every word he said, blushing when his eyes met mine. I had it bad. There was no way this was going to work. The worst part was looking at the charming five year old that was his son, who held an uncanny resemblance to him. Somewhere that child had a mother, though Ymir hadn't mentioned one. It's not like men can immaculately conceive. Which meant there was definitely a mother somewhere and a history of heterosexuality that turned any chance I had into an unachievable dream. It was completely hopeless.

* * *

“Marco!”

I jump as Levi snaps at me, yanking me unceremoniously from my reverie. My reaction causes Titan to lift his head, but when I clear my throat and rest my hands on my thighs, he slowly lowers back down onto the blanket Levi had insisted I supply for him to sit on during our sessions.

“Yes?” I reply innocently.

Levi glares, but doesn't scold me further, just casting his eyes down again to scribble on his pad of paper. “Tell me what you think of Mr. Kirstein,” he commands instead, followed by fiddling with the volume knob on the sound system.

I can feel the heat coloring my cheeks, burning my neck and ears. As usual, it's like he can read my mind, making me wonder why I have to tell him everything aloud if he already knows how I feel. 

“Um...” I mumble. After a pause that earns me another skeptical look from Levi, I cautiously continue. “I dunno. He's... nice. Short-tempered, I guess, but all and all, he's kind. He doesn't hide how he feels.” I find myself smiling without really meaning to. Unable to control the grin on my face, I let my head loll back on the settee. Having hidden all these observations for the past week and a half, it's a relief to be able to tell someone. “Doesn't care what others think of him, either. I guess I'm jealous of him in that sense. He's so honest. And attractive...”

“You find him attractive?” Levi inquires, leaning back. When I don't answer immediately, he clarifies, “Or you're attracted to him?” Always so perceptive... After swallowing down my nerves, I look at my hands on my lap. “Your sexuality isn't something to be ashamed of inside this room, Marco.”

I think about Erwin, about his implications toward a relationship between Levi and him. Of anyone I could tell, I think Levi would understand. Still, twenty-five years, never speaking of it, never acknowledging it. Only glazing over it in my therapy sessions, avoiding the subject, focusing on something else – anything else. But even then, it would be stupid to think someone as astute as Levi doesn't at least suspect it.

“Let's talk about your sexuality,” Levi changes gears, fighting the battle head on now. “Not just gender. What is it that you find attractive?”

I blink down at my hands, contemplating it. I've never really had the time to give it much thought, to be honest. “Honesty,” I say, after a minute. “Brutal honesty. Even if it's bad, even if it hurts, having someone bare all, something about that is oddly beautiful.” And before I know it, I'm neck deep in Jean Kirstein again, grinning stupidly. Like how he's grumpy and his hair is a mess in the morning. How he doesn't bother to hide his sour expressions or his displeasure. When he cusses under his breath while he's thinking sometimes. “And that hint of chaos and imperfection some people have. Like just below the surface, there's a storm raging. And fiery amber eyes that stare too deep and look too long, because he can't be bothered to be ashamed by it.” I blush, jarred back to the present.

I don't miss the smirk Levi's trying to conceal. I think this may be only the second time I've seen his expression shift away from levels of annoyed. We exchange eye contact while he writes and his expression is unmistakable. 'You've got it bad,' his grey eyes tell me. 'And you aren't fooling me.' I sigh, scratching the back of my neck until Levi eventually opens his mouth. 

“You admire him. And you're envious of him. Because he's not hindered by his duty in the same way that you are.” I feel like I've been punched in the gut, the truth of the blow hitting me head on. “But I don't think that makes your feelings any less sincere. You know... a lot of my attraction to my past partners have been based in admiration. We're all strong in different ways and there's nothing wrong with cherishing others' strengths. Fuck, if anything, it's a recognition of your weakness and a starting point for growth. ”

“What about –” The words catch in my throat. I swallow them, but Levi's eyes probe me. I gulp in a deep breath, visibly. I'm sure my blush has returned, but I mumble the words. “What is it that you admire about the commander?”

Levi's pen jerks and he cusses under his breath. I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, especially when Levi clears his throat, brows furrowing further as he flips the page on his pad and starts over. 

“These talks are about you, Marco, not me,” Levi says carefully, so I open my mouth, about to back track and apologize. Before I can, though, Levi sighs, running a hand through his loose fringe, silencing me with just that and a glance out the window to his left. “I suppose it's his ability to lead. That calm charisma. I've always been a follower. I take my orders, don't ask questions, for the most part, even if I don't like it. But Erwin can command the attention of a room with just his voice. He can get men to follow him into battle and die for him. That strength... it's not one that many people have. And even fewer can use it as responsibly as he does.

“And... even when he fails, he can still earn the respect of his men. Boys like you still look up to him and adore him even as he is now, just a man without an arm.” Levi's eyes are distant. I recognize the expression as something Erwin had shown me once, leaning against a wall with a Styrofoam cup of bitter coffee in his hand. It's strange, imagining two men being able to think this way about each other without letting shame hinder them.

“And he's fucking sexy in a uniform,” Levi finishes, sneering at me briefly.

* * *

At 21:45, I successfully settle down for the night, Titan in the opposite corner of the Queen-sized bed, probably half asleep at this point. I have a book on my lap and I absently flip through the pages. To be honest, I feel like an idiot. A grown man reading some cheesy, over-dramatized romance novel. It seemed harmless when I'd grabbed it at the grocery store while Jean picked up a few necessities and a tub of ice cream on the way back to the house after my appointment. I had just wanted something to numb my mind before bed, hoping it would make me fall asleep faster once I become sufficiently exhausted. 

But even with my embarrassment, I find myself entranced, engrossing myself in the overall simple plot. It just seems like a normal high school love story, for all I can figure out. Cool guy meets nerdy girl, cue denial of affection and the girl teaching the guy the importance of nerdy individuality. I'd seen a dozen movies with the same plot. Still, I'm fixated…

I can't help feeling like given how often this trope is used, you would think I could have experienced it at least once in the four years I had spent in high school. I try to tell myself it's because I was just too busy, doing everything it took to get ready for college and then the Marines. And yet, I can't help but be a little more pessimistic, realizing that my lack of interesting in the opposite sex had played a big part. Not for lack of trying, I guess. But I never found myself looking at girls. And even the few crushes I might have had time to indulge had I not been so focused on the future, well, I wouldn't imagine any of them had even thought to look at me in that light. 

It's crushing in this sense. The realization that no matter who I find myself attracted to, they'll never return my affection. Normal people don't behave that way. It's the same with Jean Kirstein. There's a lump in my throat as the reminder hits me for the hundredth time since I looked upon him and his little boy hand in hand. And even if I could indulge in any glimmer of hope, the fact of the matter is, I will never be able to act on my urges, regardless. Even now, I can only adjust myself half-heartedly in my pajama pants, not wanting to sully his name with my impure thoughts.

A sharp knock on the door makes my hand shoot away from my groin, and I jerk enough to make Titan rouse to attention watching me in concern. 

“Hey, I finally got the punk to sleep,” Jean chirps, popping his head through the few inches between the door and its frame “Wanna crack into that ice cream?” He's got that crooked grin on his face. I can already feel my cheeks growing warm, even if he didn't exactly catch me cupping my privates. His smile falters slightly, and I fear I look suspicious somehow, until he says, “Ah, fuck, but you're already in bed.” Still, he opens the door a little more widely, leaning on the frame with crossed arms. “Unless you want me to take a bowl up to you?”

“I...” A nervous itch of my nose and I'm smiling, though perhaps a little tensely. “That would be great, actually. Sorry.” What exactly am I apologizing for? Making him bring food to me like a butler? Or my disgusting need to envision every inch of him when Levi had asked what it is I find attractive? I look down at the book in my hand, wondering why novels never mention these horrifying dilemmas.

Jean beams. Smirks, really. “Fine, but you owe me!”

My head falls back on the headboard once he's disappeared again, and I set to kneading at my residual limb, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. I dog-ear my page before closing the book on my lap, setting it on the night stand, and wonder how I'm going to survive this, survive his golden eyes piercing through me constantly, survive his kindness.

It only takes him a few minutes to return, two ceramic bowls of vanilla ice cream in hand. After handing one to me, he unceremoniously plops down in front of me in the bed, presumably where my right leg would have be, if I had one. Unabashed, he sneers at me, popping a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. This is what I had meant while talking with Levi. So unashamed, completely unfazed by the stupid look I must have on my face.

We each take a few bites before he crosses his legs, nudging my other leg over a little more to make room for himself. It's hot, where he touches me. He's in loose cotton shorts that end mid-thigh, revealing the lean muscles of his legs, the soft, dark blond hair accumulated there. 

“So tell me about it,” he says, mouth full. “Being over there. I mean, like, was it scary?”

“Terrifying,” I say immediately before I can stop myself. “Like your worst nightmare only you can't just wake up when things get to be too much.” 

Most people don't want to hear about this. Whether it's because they want to ignore the dark, seedy side of war or for respect for my feelings, people just never bring up Afghanistan to me. When I mention it, they stare at me like I'm an alien. Or I'm about to burst into tears, even if I'm not – which really depends on the day. I never talk about my tour with anyone besides Levi and Erwin. But Jean asked because he wanted to know. For whatever reason, he's interested by me. 

And I know exactly why that makes me so happy and loose lipped. That's the most embarrassing part.

“I couldn't imagine going to war. Or even holding a gun for that matter. Not that I'm one to back down from a fight. But that shit is suicide.” Jean holds his spoon in his mouth, eyeing me. “After all, look at you!” He laughs and I don't know why but it makes me giggle. After all, I'm sure I'm not the best example of the ability of our military forces. I can't even bother to be offended.

“You don't have to talk about that part specifically, by the way,” Jean says, stabbing into his bowl again. “I mean, you can tell me what happened when you’re ready. I'm sure that's one of the worst parts. So thinking about it, being reminded of it constantly, the pity, it all must suck royally.”

I nod absently. It's not so much that I want to hide it from him. But no matter how familiar we are toward each other, even if he can sit on my bed, touch his leg on mine, let me live in his house, we've only known each other a few weeks. I don't need to be burdening him with my baggage in that way. “I'm glad you don't treat me like I'm fragile,” I mumble. “Not many people can do that. You, Ymir, Levi, my commanding officer, that's about it. Everyone else... Looks at me like I'm fine china.”

“I know what you mean,” Jean hums, looking down. “I mean, I don't. Not in the same way. But I get it. It's like one bad thing happens and suddenly you're damaged goods. People tiptoe around you, won't look you in the eye. You try to get back to normal, but it’s hard when everyone around you wants to remind you how fucked up and broken you are.”

“Exactly!” I exclaim. When Jean's head shoots up, his eyes big, and his lips pink, I flush, clearing my throat, looking down at the ice cream melting in my lap. “Like, I know,” I sigh. “I am very aware that I'm not the same person I was before. But I still want to get back to some semblance of normal. I just want to live my life. I'm not going to die. I'm fine. I'm getting better. Just let me get better without reminding me that I'm not every five seconds.”

Jean grins, crawling toward me, flopping down against the headboard beside me. “Man, don't I know. When m–” Suddenly he falters, dropping his spoon, fumbling with it slightly before he manages to right himself, placing it in the bowl. “Woops,” he laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair. “I mean, a while back, I was having a really hard time. Really depressed, I mean. I... I basically would have stayed in bed and slept and starved myself into the grave, if not for my son. But I had Leo, and he needed me, and I had to be a father to him, ya'know?” 

I nod, even though I don't really.

“But everyone – seriously _everyone_ – I know thought I wouldn't be able to handle it. I mean, fuck, I was still a kid and totally alone... But I know I can give him the best chance. And everyone wanted to take him from me, because they thought it would be easier for both of us. But I know if I hadn't had Leo to think about it, if I hadn't gotten my ass in gear for him, I probably would have killed myself.” Jean laughs, scratching at his scalp.

“I know it's not the same. I definitely haven't seen the things you have. And I can't imagine losing a limb. But, I mean, I think that time in my life really gave me the drive I needed to grow up and be a real father to Leo. Otherwise...” He shakes his head, looking away from me. “I probably wouldn't be here today.”

I scratch my nose, pursing my lips briefly. Before I can stop myself, the words are coming, spilling out of me without a second thought. “When I very first came back, I thought about ending it constantly. My whole future had been rooted in the military. It's kind of a family tradition. So when I came back and found out I'd never be able to serve again... I thought it was all over for me. So I get it, I think. That hopelessness when you think you have nowhere else to turn...”

I stare at Jean's mouth, the wet pinkness of his lips as he licks them, watching me carefully. “What did you do to get out of that place?”

I shrug with my left. “I tried to kill myself.”

Jean holds his breath, waiting.

“I was a coward. Couldn't go through with it. Had every pill they gave me in a pile on the table. The painkillers, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, fuck, I was on so many pills back then I can't even remember half of them. I was going to take every single pill I could find in one go and go to sleep and hope to god I never woke up again. But as I was talking myself through it, trying to convince myself to start, I thought of something my commander said once.

“He told me something once about how bravery isn't lack of fear, but having the power – the courage – to overcome your fear despite it. And I realized how silly it was. I was trying to coach myself into giving up, using words of empowerment to give up. I felt like such a tool. So I called Levi and he came to me, sat with me the rest of the night.

“Every time I think about giving up again, I force myself to remember that moment, that exact moment when it dawned on me exactly how ridiculous it is to just give up in that way. How even if I'm not a Marine any more, I can still be brave.” I flush suddenly, realizing I had been rambling on.

Jean is watching me carefully, teeth sunk deep in his bottom lip. “Well, I'm very glad you are still here,” he says after a long moment of silence as we just stare at each other. “And... Leo is, too. He adores you.”

I laugh. A real laugh. “He's a great kid,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” Jean sighs, beaming with pride. Then, quietly, “God knows where he gets it from.”

“I dunno.” I chuckle, hand going to my nose instinctively. “You're pretty great yourself. More than I deserve.”

Eyes wide, Jean stares at me, mouth hanging open slightly, cheeks going from that flesh color to pink to bright red. We blink together and then begin clearing our throats, looking away nervously. I shouldn't have said that. I'm being far too transparent. Before I know it, he'll realize how I think about him and I'll have to leave. I don't want to ruin this.

“I should get to bed,” Jean mumbles. When he moves to stand on the opposite side of the bed, I wonder if he's going to give me some awkward “no homo” speech. But he only bends over to take my bowl from my lap, exposing his chest through the neck of his V-neck as he leans toward me. I swallow roughly, feeling strangled by the sudden heat on my neck.

He stops at the door on his way out, grinning again. “You shouldn't be so nice to people all the time, Marco,” he laughs, resting his temple on the door frame. “People might get the wrong idea and take advantage of it.” There's a faint ghost of a smile on his lips before he adds, “Lights out.”

With that, the light switch is flipped and I'm left in darkness with Titan, wondering stupidly what he possibly could have meant by that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get me wrong, this is hopefully going to go a lot slower than is implied by this chapter. Probably... Hopefully. I'm trying, okay?
> 
> Also: thanks so much to everyone who has given me kudos and the like, I really appreciate it! Um, I'm not sure about the etiquette with comments, though. I want to thank each of you individually, but is that a little weird? This is my first story on ao3 so I'm not really sure... ;u;''


	4. Sleepless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean forgets this is all in the job description of 'Daddy'...  
> (Jean's point of view)

I rub my eyes, letting my head fall back on the plush of the couch. The harsh glow of the laptop screen is the only source of light in the room, and it hurts my eyes to look at. It's three in the morning and I've still got at least half a dozen files to go through. That's what I get for jackassing around at work instead of just doing my job. Grisha knows me, though. He never should have told me it was okay to take my work home with me if I ran out of time. 

Yeah, I'll just blame him for it.

I cuss, closing my most recently finished file, leaving it on the stack of other completed manila folders. Fuck, why does he want to convert everything digitally now of all times, anyway? He's avoided computers like the plague up until now.

I grab the next folder, opening it in front of me, taking one look at the print that blurs before my tired eyes and cuss. Fuck it. Fuck it all. I'll just tell him the truth, I shrug, closing the laptop. I mean, it's not like I haven't been working hard since I got home. Telling him so wouldn't be a lie. I even had to ask Marco to cook dinner and put Leo to bed because I wanted to get this done. It's just too much. And I still have to get up at 7:00 a.m. to get Leo to school.

Feeling about fifty years older than I really am, I push to my feet, letting my joints crackle and pop as I stand for the first time since my nine o'clock bathroom break. I stretch, letting out a few groans of relief before I head for the stairs.

It's around the fifth step up that I hear it. A short scream coming from the second floor that makes me half jump out of my skin. Had it been three weeks ago, I would have charged up there to see what was wrong. But after a month of living with Marco Bodt, I've pretty much grown accustomed to his occasional outbursts. Luckily, Leo is a heavy sleeper, and though I'm not so lucky, I can give him the courtesy of ignoring it. I sigh, continuing my trek, knowing he'll only grow embarrassed if I go in to check on him. He still has nightmares almost every night, though we've stopped talk about them after those first couple days. I know by now that he would just rather ignore them. I can't blame him for that.

Still, at his door, which is slightly ajar, sending a warm stripe of light from the lamp on the nightstand into the hallway, I pause. Against my better judgment, I peak in, having just enough room to view his bed, where the covers have been thrown back, revealing a sweating, panting Marco in nothing more than a pair of boxer-briefs, exposing the ugly scar that cuts off his right leg near the bottom of his thigh. 

His dog is situated in between his thighs, licking his face, obstructing my view, but I still have a pretty good angle to see him. Eyes closed, he rests his forehead against Titan's, petting him between the shoulders. I feel like an ass, looking in on this private moment but it's hard to pull my eyes away. I wonder what he would do if he saw me standing here. Would he be angry? But he doesn't open his eyes, wrapping his toned arms around Titan's neck, letting the dog rest his head on those broad shoulders. And though Marco is shaking like a leaf, Titan remains firm, whining slightly but keeping steady.

I roll away from the door, pressing my back to the wall beside it as soon as I hear the tender weeping noises coming from inside the room. Clamping a hand over my mouth, I can only stand and listen. My heart is pounding in my chest, so much so I feel it heavily, feel it pumping blood in my ears. God, the things he must dream about. I bite my lip so hard it hurts, grounding myself with the pain. There's something about hearing others cry that has always been particularly painful for me. Lolling my head back against the wall, I can only listen, not wanting to intrude, but unable to move.

I don't know how long I stand there before his weeping subsides to little more than breathless hiccups, reminding me of Leo, how he gets sometimes when he's tired and cranky and irrational. I can finally release my breath, lowering my hand, but I wait a little longer until I stumble toward the bathroom to splash some water over my face.

I don't know how he does it, how he puts up with that every single night. I mean, I guess his medication and Titan are supposed to help in some way, but he's still so much fucking stronger than me. I could never do what he does. Hell, I can barely handle my everyday stress without losing my mind. I can't imagine...

* * *

I stumble out of work like a zombie, relieved that I don't have anything else planned for the day. No errands to run, no appointments to take Marco to, no previously made plans to honor. The rest of today will be resting at home with Marco, Leo, and Titan, probably ordering pizza, and turning in early for the night. Even if it's Friday. No more staying up late staring at a computer screen. No more awkward naps at my desk, A week after my boss delegated it to me, I have finally finished converting all of our files onto the computer, both to the main system's hard drive and the program that put everything on the internet so it will never be lost.

After compiling the personal files of all his patients, Grisha Jaeger made me convert all his paper accounting bullshit – receipts, insurance crap, bills and purchases, fucking everything – into digital accounting bullshit. Dozens of excel sheets, pdfs, word documents, all the shit that has accumulated for the past twenty damn years, needed scanning or retyping or whatever else. I'm not a fucking accountant. I'm not even that tech-savvy. Any one of my co-workers has a better understanding of this shit than I do. But they also probably would have taken twice or even three times as long to do it. Fucking slackers.

I groan, climbing into my sedan, resting my head against the wheel as I struggle to put the key in the ignition with my eyes closed. When I finally get it, revving the engine, I manage to pull my head up, focusing on the task at hand.

It's a ten minute drive to Leo's school. I'm actually about thirty minutes early, long enough to lean back in the seat, turn the radio low and rest my eyes. The whole weekend is ours, I muse. I wonder if I should make some plans. A trip to the park for Leo or something easy like that, just to give us something to do. But maybe just a couple days of lazing around the house will be good for us. If anything, should we get bored, I'm sure inviting a friend or two over won't be a problem. I'm starting to think I should introduce Marco to some of my friends, before he begins to think I don't have any.

And it's not like I don't, for the record. I most definitely have friends. But having a personal life gets away from you when you have a five year old to raise. They understand. Still politely invite me out every other weekend, even when I turn them down time after time. Sometimes I ask Leo's grandparents to watch him so I can remind myself that I'm still twenty-two... Not that they don't want to spend time with him, but I hate to rely too heavily on them, after all they've done for me.

Leo tapping on the window pulls me from my thoughts. How long had I been sitting here? It certainly didn't feel like thirty minutes. Had I dozed off? My eyes were closed but it didn't exactly feel like sleep. But the clock on the radio doesn't lie: 3:15. I unlock the doors, letting Leo climb into the back seat, waving goodbye to the teacher's aide who had walked him to my car.

“Hey, punk.” I try to sound chipper but all I can manage is tired at this point. It's a step up from deathly exhausted, though, I tell myself. “Any homework?”

“Hi, Daddy. No homework for the weekend,” Leo reports. “But there's a sheet in my folder you have to sign for kindergarten graduation.”

“Graduation?” I groan, peeling out of the parking lot. “Who graduates from kindergarten?”

“I do!” Leo chimes in response. His eyes meet mine in the rear-view mirror. “Miss Rico said they need to know how many guests everybody is bringing so they can know how much snacks they need. So you have to sign it and put down all the names. Are you gonna invite Granna and Papa? And Marco?”

“You want Marco to come?” I muse, turning onto a side street.

“Yeah!” he chirps, as if it's perfectly obvious.

“Well, I dunno, kid,” I sigh after a minute. “Marco doesn't like to be in big crowds, so if there's a lot of people there, he might get uncomfortable.”

“Oh...”

“But I'll talk to him tonight and see what he thinks,” I say hastily to dispel some of Leo's disappointment. His eyes light up instantly in the reflection of the mirror. “But no promises. We can't force him into something he doesn't want to do. Not that he doesn't want to go to your thing, just that it may stress him out and he doesn't want to be there for that reasons. I'm sure he'd love to see you graduate or whatever.”

“Daddy...” Leo's eyes don't find mine in the mirror any longer. He's busy looking out the window, butt nearly coming off the seat to crane his head at something behind us.

“Hm?”

“You drove past our house.”

I cuss, briefly smacking the heel of my palm on the wheel. I'm too damn tired for this. I have to pull into one of the neighbor's driveways to turn around and return to our own home, swearing under my breath the whole time.

Marco and Titan meet us at the door after we unload and climb the steps onto the porch. Ever the angel, he opens the screen door for me, ushering the both of us in. As he asks Leo about his day, I beeline for the couch, flopping onto it face first, sprawled out on my stomach. I barely have the brain capacity to note he's not using his cane today. All I can focus on is the soft comfort of the plush couch. Finally, a well-deserved nap.

“Daddy, can I have my snack?” Leo asks, meandering toward me.

Maybe I let out something like an unintelligible moan into the cushions, kicking off my sneakers absently. But before I can even think of getting back up, Marco is beside him with Titan at his hip, bending over slightly to be closer to eye-level with the kid. “Hey, I'll get you a snack,” he says gently. “Daddy's had a rough week so he's really tired. How about we let him rest?” 

My savior. I don't even care if he calls me 'Daddy.' Call me Daddy, you beautiful freckled messiah. I don't give a fuck. Just let me sleep.

At this point, all I hear is footsteps and the click of Titan's claws on the wood floor moving away from me. Occasionally the two exchange words, but for the most part their speech fades in and out of my conscious until completely disappearing. 

Before long, I'm out like a light.

I don't really dream, per say. Just the occasional glimmer of images. Nothing memorable or telling from what I can discern. All I get from it is this overwhelming sense of longing, though I can't place what or who it's towards. It's all sort of hazy. Which adds an element of frustration but not enough to really draw a response from me. The whole experience feels very reactionary, like watching a movie. One where bits of the film have been cut out and replaced with black. A lot of black. Just empty space. Probably my brain trying to recuperate. Making up for all that time I was forced to throw back coffee and stay up until an ungodly hour when I should have been unconscious in bed.

When I come to, it's to an abrupt knocking. It jars me into a half sitting position, but before I can place my surroundings or even remember my damn name, Marco is lurching to his feet from the loveseat across from me, toward the door. I flop down again, burying my head under a throw pillow as he pauses in the threshold of the front door, talking to somebody. There's shuffling, brief conversation, and then he's heading over to the foot of the stairs.

Just as I think he's about to leave me down here alone, he calls up, “Leo, pizza's here. Dinner time!” 

Pizza. Glorious, wonderful, delicious pizza. 

There's thumping coming from somewhere in the house just before Marco returns before me, placing a pizza box on the coffee table, opening it to let that positively erotic smell of grease and marinara waft up toward my nose. 

“Jean, are you hungry? Sit up.” 

I peek out from under the throw pillow.

“Are you an angel?” I ask him, groggily pushing into something like a sitting position, wrapping myself more tightly in the blanket I'm swaddled in. A blanket I hadn't even realized I'd been covered with until now. I hold it close with one hand before reaching out of my warm cocoon with another to take a slice of the cheesy, doughy goodness from him.

Marco chuckles, sitting beside me. Given that I've positioned myself directly in the middle of the couch, he's forced to rest his leg against mine, mashing himself between the arm and me. I take his lack of reply as an admission of guilt. Yes, Marco Bodt is in fact a divine creature blessed upon me by some merciful god. Even with all his quirks and issues, he's still this kind to me. I sigh contently, leaning back, resting my shoulder against his. And if Marco is an angel, this must be heaven.

Leo scrambles up on my other side, appearing suddenly from wherever he'd been hiding, holding his slice with both hands. With a full mouth, Leo pipes up, “Daddy, you look like a granny.”

Marco snickers, then clears his throat quickly, reaching toward the box for his second slice. “I think he looks like one of those nesting dolls.” I feel heat on my cheeks, which significantly lessens the blow of the glare I'm attempting to give him.

“What's a nesting doll?” Leo exclaims, eyes wide.

“It's one of those painted Russian dolls with the smaller dolls inside it,” I grunt, reaching for my seconds. Marco, ever the angel he is, leans forward when I can't quite reach the box without releasing myself from my warm enclosure, grabbing a slice and bringing it toward my hands. I mumble something along the lines of gratitude, but bite into my food before I can finish.

“Oh!” Leo exclaims.

We concentrate on eating then, only sharing a few words until Leo leans forward, sliding off the couch onto his feet. “Daddy, can I play outside til it gets dark?”

I can't stifle my groan. “I'm tired, kid. And I'm eating!” I whine, curling up tighter beneath my blanket.

“It's okay,” I hear beside me, though my vision is shielded by the veil of the quilt around my head. “I can watch him...”

I'm about to be forever in the debt of Marco and his freckles, I note as I turn to face him. I'd never rely on him this much if I wasn't so damn tired. He smiles at me shyly, itching at his nose in that way he does when he's nervous. What kind of look am I giving him right now? I attempt to soften my gaze as I nod, leaning back. 

“If you don't mind...” I grumble. Then, to Leo, who is jumping up and down in excitement: “You better listen to what he says, you hear?” Leo nods hastily, sprinting toward the front door so he can grab his sneakers from the mat where they sit. “And keep in the yard,” I call after him once he's charging toward the back of the house.

Marco pushes to his feet, but doesn't leave right away. He looks down at me pensively, an anxious smile playing on his lips. He doesn't say anything, though, waiting until I nod at him in encouragement before limping slightly after Leo, with Titan in tow. At the doorway between this room and the next, he releases Titan from the leash that kept them tethered together. “Wanna go outside?” he asks the dog eagerly before they disappear from my view.

I sigh, leaning back on the couch, content to listen to Leo's cries of excitement faintly through the walls of the house, bleeding in from the back door. I have to admit that this is nice. Even if I hate relying on others, having Marco around is such a relief. His gentle demeanor and the way he handles Leo. I imagine he'll make a good father someday, when the right girl comes along, sweeps him off his feet – or is it foot? –, and he leaves me and Leo.

I shake my head, startled to find myself oddly hurt by that thought. He had said this would just be temporary, until he can stand on his own. Still, even in just a little over a month, we've grown so accustomed to Titan and him. I can't imagine how lonely it will be without him, falling back into our old patterns. I chew my lip, thoughtful.

Though I don't want it to, it reminds me of when she left. The two of us, when we first moved into this house, before Leo. We had a nice routine, the two of us, even if it was a little unorthodox. Our plans had been completely fucked over when I got her pregnant, but fuck if we weren't happy. But then she was gone, and I was alone with a baby. Would this be like that, too? I'll start to get comfortable with how things are going, and then he'll be yanked from me coldly.

But, I'm used to it being just Leo and me, I remind myself. Even if there are tons of people on the sidelines, it's still just Leo and I going at it, fighting this battle on our own. Leo is my whole world, I tell myself. As long as I have him, I can deal with anyone else disappearing. As long as he's here beside me. As long as I can see his smiling face that reminds me too much of my own, his amber eyes with the charcoal flecks watching me carefully, his sweet hugs, and the way he grabs at me when we walk around in public, holding my hand or shirt or belt loop or just anything. I'll treasure my son more than anything. Both because he's the last I have of her, but also he's the only thing in this world that's ever truly been mine.

After a moment, I push to my feet, stumbling through the half-lit house toward the back door. I want to see them both – Marco and Leo –, to be reminded that they're still here with me, still alive. I've never needed much, not a big house, not a nice car, not a lot of friends. Just a comfortable safety and my son, but that doesn't mean I can't utilize Marco's tenderness as long as I have it. Standing there in the barrier between the outside world and the safety of the house, I watch Marco toss a tennis ball, and how Titan and Leo race after it, trying to be the first to retrieve it and bring it back. Three times I watched this back and forth, and though Titan easily wins the race every time, Leo is smiling and laughing so brightly, I start to wonder if he is growing as attached to these two as I am.

Maybe he already is.

I know it's going to be hard for all of us when Marco finally gets to his feet. Once again, I have to remind myself that this is all temporary. It's stupid for me to let Leo get so close to Marco. I wonder what made me do it, what made me let this kind man into my home to fix everything all nice just so he can wreck it when he leaves. As I settle into a patio chair, I begin to wonder if he really has to go, someday. Can't he just stay here, live with us. What we have is so nice, so easy. I don't see why he would have to leave.

As I pout and mope myself into a stupor, Marco looks over his shoulder to grin at me. It's more sincere than some of his other smiles. I offer a half-hearted perk of the lips in return, not wanting to ruin what we've got now. He's still here, I remind myself. He's not going anywhere for a while. There's no reason to be this emotional about something that's months and months into the future. Besides, isn't it a little silly to get this wrapped up in these feeling? He's just a person. He's only been here about a month and I'm letting myself cling to his kindness already.

I sigh, shaking my head. It's too early for this, I tell myself. I lean back in my seat, soaking up the mild weather of spring, realizing for the first time how nice it is outside. The yard has finally finished recovering from the beating it got during the winter. There's a faint buzz of a bee pollinating a group of flowers to my left. In the woods behind the house, you can almost hear the gentle rippling of the creek just behind the tree line. Overhead, there's a deep rumble of a plane heading for landing at the airport that's half an hour away. It leaves long streaks through the clouds, turning the sky into a canvas as it mixes with the colors of the setting sun.

It's about then that I realize that if I can hear it, so can Marco. Call it intuition but a bad feeling creeps on me, making me tense. “Marco?” I call, hoping to god that this one time he won't be phased. There is a reason he doesn't go outside much, why he doesn't like open spaces or crowds. It only takes one time of seeing how he gets in these settings to understand why. But everything is so peaceful in this moment, I dread the thought of all of that coming crashing down. Panic rises in my chest when he doesn't react to my voice, knowing exactly what is happening.

His head is tilted back, eyes trained upward, I'd assume, but his back is to me. I'm on my feet in a second, leaving my quilt in my seat and taking big steps to join his side. “Marco,” I repeat, softer this time. I might as well not be there. Marco searches the sky with wide, focused eyes and furrowed brows. His mouth a hard line. I can see the way his chest rises and falls swiftly. He's already somewhere else, a much scarier place. Somewhere, I hear Leo call for us and Titan's anxious whine. “Hey, it's okay. Everything is okay,” I try again. I touch his arm, though I don't dare get too close. His hands are hard fists and I don't need to startle him.

We stand there, for god knows how long, him staring at the streaks of plane exhaust in the sky, me staring at him. It's probably only a few seconds but it feels like an eternity and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest. _No, we don't need this right now,_ is all I can think.

I don't even realize it at first Titan appearing before us, barking lowly. With no response from Marco, he lifts a paw, scratching at Marco's good leg, trying to draw his attention downward. I've seen him do this before, but it never stops amazing me. How a dog can know to do this. When his second attempt fails, Titan leaps. With great precision, he manages to lift all four legs off the air, jumping into Marco, bumping his flank on Marco's toned chest and land all without knocking Marco over, despite how big of a dog Titan is. And it works for the most part, he's pulled from wherever it is he goes in moments like these, tilting his head down to the dog, though his eyes remain trained on the sky until Titan repeats the action, pulling bringing his attention to him.

They look at each other and I deflate, sighing in relief. No panic attack today. I loop an arm around Marco's quivering shoulder. “I'm sorry,” he says, voice unsteady. The fun is over. Leo looks on with concern as I guide Marco into the house. “I'm sorry,” he repeats.

“Don't be,” I tell him. “It's not your fault.”

Leo latches onto my other hand as we walk inside. “Is Marco okay, Daddy?” I can't imagine what it must look like from his perspective. To see kind, strong Marco revert into a shivering mess before him. I squeeze the boy's hand, smiling reassuringly down at him.

“Everything is okay,” I say, talking to both of them. “We're all okay.”

It's a sad fucking day when I have to become the voice of reason. I sigh, leading Marco into the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water. At the island in the center of the kitchen, Marco takes a bar stool with Titan at his feet, leaning on his leg reassuringly and I pull Leo up to sit on the counter. Yeah, how did I get into this position exactly?

“I'm sorry,” Marco grumbles again, when I return to him with a glass of water from the tap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time with this chapter. I mean, I knew what I wanted to happen but getting it all down was such a bitch. I have also decided that it's easier for me to write as Marco than as Jean. Don't ask me why... I dunno...
> 
> Oh yeah, I made a kind of half-assed playlist: [Here](http://8tracks.com/addesin/crutches-mix#smart_id=dj:10906093)  
> (sorry if the link doesn't work for a bit. I'm still trying to figure it out...)


	5. Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco remembers _back then_...  
>  (Marco's point of view)

Weighed down by about a hundred twenty pounds of protective gear, supplies, and an M-16, eight of us weave through what we believe is an abandoned town a few dozen miles west of the Iranian border. Despite blending in with all the beige and grey and tan of the Afghan desert, I can't help but feel we seem a little conspicuous, even if there's no one here to watch us. Call it paranoia. That's probably all it is, I try to convince myself. But we're surrounded by rubble and the smell of death permeating the dry air. I don't see any bodies, but previous carnage is made obvious by the clumping of dirt on some of the blood residue as it struggles to congeal, by the holes pouring light through buildings in shambles. Any time you find something like this, the only smart thing to do is to get suspicious.

You try to keep your eyes off of it. Worrying yourself into a panic helps no one. So you don't think about it too much. Don't look for faces on the bodies. Don't breathe too deeply and get that smell clogged into your throat. Just keep your eyes open and keep moving forward. So that's what we do. Cautiously skulking between desolate buildings, keeping quiet. We just want on the other side of this cluster of abandoned civilization where there should be a chopper or two ready to take us back to base.

Commander Smith is expressionless, but I can tell just by the way he walks, the way he looks over his shoulder at us more often than usual, he doesn't like this any more than me. So the smartest thing for me to do is to stick as close to him as possible. In our formation, I assume position behind his right flank, as usual, but even more than that, I keep my attention on him, awaiting any special directions, but also gauging his expression. With so many blind spots, given how cramped and cluttered these buildings are, even I knew we should be worried about an invisible enemy.

From the beginning, something feels wrong. I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, bumping my helmet into my forehead, queasy from the heat and the mind-numbing paranoia. You can never relax, not while you’re exposed like this, not even in the safety of the barracks. The heavy silence, only broken by the occasional whistle of wind through fissures in the rocks and dirt and sand skimming across the ground, is probably the worst. I've never liked silence, but being here, it makes it even worse. Silence is your worst enemy. The calm before the proverbial storm. Bad things always come before silence.

Maybe it's all my thinking about it that jinxes us. If I hadn't been worrying over it, we would have gotten through this town unscathed. Even though I know that's not true, I still can't help but think it. When we turn a corner onto a main street, and once the last of us round the bend, Erwin senses a movement. I cuss under my breath when he holds up his closed fist to bring our pilgrimage to a halt. Thirty yards away, on the other side of the street, a man stands a pile of rubble, a beat-to-hell assault rifle in his arms. Instantly, eight Marines have their arms at the ready, trained on the lone soldier.

If you could call him a soldier. An unkempt beard, his robes frayed and rubbed with dirt and blood. The odd thing is his head is uncovered, hair flattened close to his ears, but still exposed. I don't think I've ever seen that before. But there is a cut dribbling blood at his hairline. I suppose he'd been through something before we'd arrived that had caused him to lose his headdress. His bushy eyebrows are pushed low, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. But, he has no armor, no uniform, just him, and the gun. An automatic AK-47 made from salvaged parts, I recognize even from this distance.

We stand in silence until Commander Smith begins trying to coax the rifle from his hands. Not only does he not want to shed needless blood, I guess, but even more importantly, bullets echo louder than voices and we don't need to alert the surrounding three miles to our presence. Unfortunately, the language barrier is an obvious dilemma, and soon they're just shouting back and forth and on top of each other in their own languages. It's during this chaos that I chance a look around for more enemies.

And thank god I do. Just as the Afghan man across the way begins to pepper the sky and building tops with rounds, I catch the gleam of metal on the other side of the road, just a few yards closer than the rifleman. It only takes a split second to recognize the RPG launcher peeking over a half-destroyed car. There's a split second between the identification and my brain calculating expected trajectory. Maybe three more for me to let my gun fall from my side and grab my commander, spanning my arm across his chest to guide him up and over a small mountain of rubble and tackle him so we lay on our stomachs as the grenade whizzes past us to and somewhere behind our platoon.

I hear a couple screams and rounds being fired when the explosion hit, sending more dirt and rubble flying. The commander mimics my wide eyed gaze, and I know what he's thinking. Carefully, we push to our knees, then press our backs to our makeshift shield, having only a few inches of protection between our heads and the top of the pile. Deep breaths. I close my eyes briefly to calm myself before nodding with conviction. Just a peek, I remind myself. Don't dawdle.

“One, two, three,” I count to myself just under a breath before popping my head up quickly, trying to place the enemy. 

The first guy had disappeared. Don't see a corpse but he could have fallen. Or he's still alive, hiding. The RPG launcher is still in place. Can see it peeking up from behind the car still as its owner tries to reload it. And... a gunman in the second floor window of the building directly across from us with his sights pointed directly at me. “Shit,” I hiss just as he puts his finger on the trigger.

A rough, heavy grip drags me back behind the rubble just as a half dozen shots pepper a line up where I had just been, two landing on the awkwardly cut blocks of concrete at the top of our little wall, the other four embedding themselves in the wall behind us.

The Commander doesn't let go of my shoulder, shaking me fiercely. “Just for a second, Bodt,” he scolds me, his form of thanking god I hadn't just died, armor pierced by a hail of bullets. I nod, but he doesn't let go. “Don't be stupid, Marco.” I nod.

He doesn't let go, shaking me. Pushing my shoulder. My eyes go wide. “Marco, Marco.” It's weaker now. I'm confused. This isn't right. This isn't how it happened. We're supposed to move. Crawl to a different section of the barrier. But he's still shaking me. “Marco!” I shake my head. “Marcooo!”

* * *

I start awake with an arm on my shoulder, yanking at me. Who? Before I even know what's happening, I'm on guard, my instincts kicking in. Adrenaline pumps through me, rushing through every poised inch of me. I can't really even tell you what I'm thinking. It's just the natural course of events. 

I shoot up onto my knees, snatching the assailant's wrist, wrestling them down beneath me easily – almost too easily – and while pinning them down with one hand, I have a fist raised, ready to strike. 

It all happens in seconds. The movements so natural, I don't even have to think about it. Rage colors everything red and I feel myself swell with power.

_Don't fuck with me, don't fuck with me, I'll kill you, kill you. You have no idea how easily I could kill you. Don't touch me._

A mantra in my head.

_Fucking kill you. Don't touch me, I'll kill you. I won't die, I'll kill you._

All I can hear is my heartbeat until the wail and the barking and then “Oh my fucking god, Marco!”

And all it takes is one blink of my eyes.

Beneath me, not a soldier or a rebel or a murderer, but a little boy. A child frozen in fear, pinned beneath me, my fist on his shoulder. Wide topaz eyes turned foggy with tears, mouth gaping after the cry he'd let out. He blubbers beneath me and I fall away, looking up, at the panic in Jean's eyes from the door, then all around me.

I'm not there.

I'm not there.

I'm here. I'm here in the States, in the fringes of a small slice of suburbia, in a big old house, in a bedroom, on a bed with a blue comforter, sweet morning sunlight pouring through a picture window. 

I shake my head, plopping on my butt. I didn't... No. My eyes find Jean's again and he reanimates from his frozen position at the door, scrambling to snatch up Leo, protect him from me. 

Protect him from me…

Oh god.

I let out a choking sob. “Leo...” Oh god, oh god. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to curb the shaking. No, no. I'm a monster. “Leo, Leo,” I say, watching helplessly as Jean holds him close, cradles him to his chest aggressively tight, watching them cling to each other, watching him stare at me with an unreadable expression. 

“I'm...” _so sorry._ The words don't come. Jean shakes his head, leaving me there.

I scramble after him, but am left stranded on the bed as he disappears into the hall. Without my fake, I'm stuck. I'm so helpless. I can't fix this. How do I fix this? No... I have to fix it. 

Panting erratically, I throw my leg over the edge of the bed, bracing on the bed-side table to steady myself as I push to my foot. I wobble, nearly fall back, but manage to balance enough that I can stand, though I'm hunched and broken. I manage to make a few hops to the door, crashing into the frame to call into the hall after Jean.

But when there's no response, I panic. I can't make it down the hall or the stairs like this. I need my leg... I need... _I need help._ A sob falls from my lips as I turn to lean on the door-frame, slamming the door shut so I can slide down it. Head in my hands, I choke on my wet tears, wanting nothing more than to punch something – mostly myself. 

I'm such a fucking idiot. 

A monster.

Somewhere, in the corner of my vision, I notice Titan, seconds before he rests a paw on my good leg, nudging at me with his nose, yipping softly. What was a dog's job when something like this happened? How was him being here supposed to fix this? How do I fix this? “Ti...” I groan, letting him settle himself on my lap, letting him lay across me, offering his warmth, not minding when my tears fall on his ashy fur. 

God, I'm pathetic.

I should leave. It would be a slap in the face for me to stay. After... after laying my hands on his son. After hurting Leo. I should definitely leave. But I don't know where I would go. I can't stay at the shelter any more... Where would I go with Titan? This was the last place for me, and I fucked it all up.

The door jerks behind me and I jump in shock. No, no, I'm not ready for this. I squeeze Titan to me, trying to still my unsettled breathing. The door rattles as the knob is jiggled and twisted, but it won't budge with my weight against it. “Marco, open up,” Jean calls from the other side. He voice is surprisingly gentle, cautious. Like trying to calm a crazed beast, I tell myself. “Marco, it's okay, let me in.”

It's a long moment of silence before I finally shift to move Titan off of me so I can scoot away from the door, pressing myself to the corner of the bed, letting him come in. He doesn't see me at first, on the floor, but when he does, he's on his knees before me instantly. “Hey,” he murmurs.

“I'm so sorry!” I blurt immediately. All I know to do is apologize. “I... I wasn't thinking. Wasn't awake. I didn't even...”

“It's okay, Marco,” he tells me, situating himself beside me, resting a hand on my good knee. Titan settles down on my other side, eyeing Jean wearily. “I mean, it's not, but it's done. It's over. I know that wasn't you, back there. I know you're not like that.”

“But I am,” I hear myself cry. I don't want to. I want to believe him, that I would never hurt anyone, especially a little boy, especially Leo. But I did. I hurt him. I nearly struck Jean's sweet, harmless little boy, and had it not been for their voices reaching through the fog in my mind, I would have done it. “I could have killed him, Jean.” The word nearly knock the wind out of me. But they ring true. I feel my throat tighten painfully. I don't want to say it, but I do. “You aren't safe with me here.”

Jean's eyes flash, the amber of them turning fiery. “No,” he growls defiantly, squeezing my knee hard. “I told you. You have a place here, with us. You're part of our family. Even if you don't trust yourself, I trust you. I know you wouldn't have hurt him.”

“Jean,” I plead, pushing to my knees. As much as I can, at least, with only the one. “If he hadn't screamed, I would have. Do you understand what I've been trained to do?”

“But you didn't,” Jean argued stubbornly. “You hesitated, and that was enough. I saw. When you realized, you let go immediately. You're not a killer, even if you were trained to kill. You said so yourself, you weren't awake. I know you have those dreams. You just weren't awake, and he startled you.” His eyes distance. I shake my head, but he's talking so fast, I can't get a word in edgewise. “I told him not to, that you startle easily. He knows, he's seen, but he did it anyway. I told him not to wake you up but he wanted to show you the –”

“This isn't his fault, Jean,” I whine, interrupting his tangent. “It's mine, and you know it.”

Jean comes back to me, scowling. “Don't do that,” he hisses, squeezing my knee so much that it hurts this time. “Don't try to blame yourself for everything. Pretend you have all the control. You're not superman.”

“Yes, I'm only human,” I sigh. “And I fucked up –“

“We all fuck up, Marco,” Jean insists. “You're not perfect. You don't have to be perfect. You don't have to do this to yourself.” He takes me in both hands, grounding me with a firm grasp on both shoulders. I'm stunned stupid, falling silent. “You're allowed to fuck up. You're allowed to not be okay. You don't have to get better right away, okay? Do you understand? This... all of this, we'll get past it, okay? Stop doing this to yourself. Leo's alright, so just stop.”

Everything in me constricts and I stop breathing. With his amber eyes focused on me, willing me to believe him, and his hands holding my shoulders to keep me in place, I feel safer than I've ever felt since returning to the States, and especially since leaving in the first place.

“Two months ago, I knew what we were getting into when I agreed to let you come here,” Jean says carefully, running his thumb along my collarbone. “I mean, I didn't know the extent of it, but I knew you were going to have a lot of baggage. I was afraid of something like this happening, and how I was supposed to react to it, but now that it has... I'm not going to just give up on you like that. You're a part of our family now, do you understand me?”

Somehow, I nod.

Jean pulls me into an awkward, kneeling hug. “You're okay,” he soothes. “We're okay. We're all okay.”

His words have become a familiar mantra. So often, he saves me from drowning. Pulls me back from the brink after Titan brings me back down to earth from my flashbacks and panic attacks. Every time, Jean is there to remind me that we're okay, that there's no war raging here, and I'm not seconds from death any more. I can't begin to express how grateful I am for that. 

_You're okay. We're okay. We're all okay._ And if we're not not, we're going to be. Eventually.

I squeeze him to me, and he lets out a breathless chuckle. _Please, don't ever leave me…_

As we pull away, Jean offers a comforting smile, something like his usually crooked grin but softer, gentler. “You should go talk to Leo,” he murmurs. “He's worried about you.”

Fear pricks along my neck at the thought of facing him, but I nod, knowing this is something I must do. “M-my...” I indicate haphazardly toward where my prosthetic leans further down the bed. Jean helps me retrieve the different pieces so I can don it, finally able to stand. After I manage to get all the layers on, I wobble to my feet, letting Jean lead me across the hall to Leo's room.

He knocks gently on the door before pushing it open. “Leo,” he coos gently, turning into a father before my eyes. “Baby, Marco's here.”

Leo glances up from his hoard of Lego’s on the floor, big eyes not cautious or weary but wet with concern. He licks his lips, eyes still puffy and nose still read from crying, but he's clutching a half-assembled, Lego ship, and eventually asks, “Are you okay?”

I can only laugh, crossing the threshold. After... what I did. And he asks _me_ if _I'm_ okay.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm okay.” I hear the click of Titan on the hardwood behind me as I settle down on the rug in the middle of the floor, then he's settling down beside me, close enough for Leo to pet, and he does.

“I'll be downstairs,” Jean says somewhere behind me. “Just call if you need me.”

Leo's attention is back on his Lego's, building something that just makes me think of _Star Wars._ “Listen, Leo,” I say gently. I reach out, resting a hand on his shoulder, wondering how I should begin.

“Daddy told me not to go into your room,” Leo says, crumbling his creation in frustration. “I just wanted to show you the invitations for my graduation that Daddy bought.” He splays the pieces out before him, starting from scratch I guess. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” I murmur, pulling him up onto my crossed legs, making him look at me. I wonder how many times Jean has done this. Such a smart, empathetic boy, so kind... I rub his back in comfort as his arms naturally snake their way around my neck, gripping the small hairs at the base of my scalp. “You have no reason to apologize,” I tell him. “It's not your fault that... I'm the way I am. My problems aren't your fault, okay? I shouldn't have done what I did, or hurt you. I –”

“But you can't control it, right?” Leo says, big eyes staring into mine. He lets the fingers of one hand tangle in my hair while the other splays out on my jaw, spanning across my cheek and mouth to silence me and grazing my nose. “That's what Daddy says. He says you go somewhere else sometimes, and you don't want to, but you can't help it. He said you didn't want to hurt me but because of when you lost your leg, you get scared sometimes.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I get really scared sometimes. But I'm supposed to be getting better, and I lost my cool and hurt you, which I never, ever should have done. I never should have put my hands on you in that way, Leo. That's my fault.”

Leo clutches the neck of my shirt now. “But it's not your fault if it's an accident, right? If it's an accident... Then it shouldn't be your fault. You didn't mean to.” I can't help but think they're so similar. Leo really is his father's son. Always seeing the best in me, even when I don't deserve it. I wish I could see the good they see in me. How I wish I could see the good they see.

“I didn't mean to, but I should be in better control of myself,” I tell him. “I can't just blame any time I do bad things on it being an accident. I need to believe that I have a hand in the things I do. Does that make sense? These are my arms, my legs. I control them. And even if I do things on accident and mess up, I need to take responsibility for it. Okay?”

Leo nods, though he's deep in thought. After a moment of him playing with the corner of my mouth, rubbing my lips sloppily with his fingers with brows furrowed, he grumbles, “Then... if you take responsibility... so should I, right? I woke you up even though Daddy told me no, so I'm responsible, too right?”

I blanch. Having my words thrown in my face like that is humbling, though I know he doesn't mean it that way. He's only five years old. This isn't his fault... “Leo, it's different for you and me. I'm an adult. You're just a kid. You don't need to be responsible for anything yet.”

“But I want to,” Leo chirps, determined now. I could almost hear the little gears clicking around in his head. “I'm in control of me and what I do, right? So I can. I'm gonna be strong, like you, and Daddy.”

What do you say to that? I don't want to let him down. Don't want to break this image he has of me as this strong person. I'm not strong. Not at all. But if Leo thinks I am, I want to be that for him. I want to be everything he hopes I am. “C'mere,” I sigh, pulling him into my arms, squeezing him to my chest. “You're such a good boy, you know that?”

He grips me tight as he kneels in my lap. “You'll still come to my graduation, right?” he asks, pulling back, though his arms remain wrapped around my neck. “You promised...”

“Of course,” I laugh softly, relieved somehow, as if a weight had been lifted. Pushing his hair from his brow, I feel the pressure that had been heavy on my chest since waking up slowly begin to ease, letting me feel safe again. “I did promise after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, dramadramadrama. I told some of yall that I was gonna tear these boys to shreds. I just hope i did this justice. Writing it was so hard. I hope you understand now why the update took me so long... Hehe. Also, I'm sorry about that. Between the trouble of writing this and finals, I was having the toughest time. Hopefully updates will be a little more frequent from now on. c: 
> 
> Also, I've been thinking of writing another JeanMarco fic, this one a rewrite of a story I worked on in high school but never finished. Because for some reason I love to torture Marco most of all (I don't, I swear, it just keeps working out this way) this one would put the boys in high school, with Marco deeply in the closet and struggling with his sexuality etc... Please let me know if yall would be interested. I'd love to start writing on it soon, but we'll see. c:


	6. Bruise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean loses his cool...  
> (Jean's point of view)

I slam the phone on the receiver a little more forcefully than I had intended, panic fogging my mind and sending shots of adrenaline coursing through my veins. “Sash, I need you to cover for me,” I rasp, pushing to my feet from behind the desk. Behind me, elbow deep in one of the filing cabinets, my coworker looks up confused and mildly perturbed. “Just... cover for me. I have to go to Leo's school.”

Her expression shifts to determination, thin brows furrowing over wide eyes, and she nods curtly. I hear her grunting slightly as she bites down on a folder so she can use both hands to continue raiding the cabinet, more urgent now. I attempt to chaotically straighten out a few things at my station, just moving things around and not really doing any real good, before giving up and grabbing my keys. I can't think, can barely breath, my mind going immediately to all the worst case scenarios. I'm not usually like this, a voice in the back of my head tells me. I'm chill and collected, at work especially, a bit harsh maybe, but not one to freak out easily. But when it comes to my son, sense flies out the window as I switch into Dad-mode.

As I'm half-jogging toward the back exit, Dr. Jaeger notices me looking confused. With his mouth agape like that, my already frazzled mind goes straight to every time I've seen his usually cool exterior give away any sort of anxiety hidden beneath. “Leo,” I snap, silencing whatever he was about to say. “I...” As I reach his side, I turn to walk backwards so we maintain eye contact. “It's probably nothing... but they wouldn't tell me over the phone so I just don't know.”

They wouldn't say anything, really. Just that they needed me to come in and talk to Leo's guidance counselor. I went over every scenario I could, from food poisoning to bullying, but no matter how many questions I asked, the woman insisted that they couldn't discuss the matters over the phone. I shake my head, turning before the doctor can get in a response. He understands. If it's for Leo, he'd let me get away with murder. And I'm sure my tense face and worried eyes gave him ample excuse to let me skip out of work early.

I yank my scrub over my head once I'm out the door, and toss it into the backseat of the car in a tangled mess. The white T-shirt I wear underneath has a mustard stain I just hadn't had any luck getting out, but the May air is painfully humid, and my stress isn't helping. As I push the key into the ignition to start the car, I'm already wiping a bead of sweat from my brow, wondering if I should call Marco. Even hearing his gentle voice would probably be enough to significantly relieve some of my anxiety, but I have neither the time nor the will to wrestle my phone from out of my pocket beneath the seat belt and risk distracting myself while driving.

As I pull out of the parking lot, a more logical part of my brain tells me I'm overreacting. Leo has never had any trouble at school all year. His classmates love him, the teachers and staff love him, he's smart and kind and pretty damn responsible for a five year old. Hell, he only got sick that one time just before winter break. I've never had to come up to the school before for anything. 

And yet, that is exactly why I'm so worried. Nothing like this has ever happened. I have no idea what to expect, and that bitch wouldn't tell me anything. Perhaps all of his good luck ran out. There's an infinite number of possibilities as to what would cause them to call me, and I haven't the foggiest clue as to what was going on.

I'm going a solid ten miles over the limit as I race toward Leo's school. Lucky I don't get pulled over, weaving between traffic like the assholes I always bitch about. But somehow I manage to get there in less than fifteen minutes, and am inside the building in mere seconds.

I see Leo through the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the main office, dressed in clothes I hadn't put him in this morning. His Spiderman T-shirt has been replaced with a striped polo that is a few sizes too big, his shorts with a pair of baby-shit green corduroy pants that don't match the season. He sits in a waiting chair, swinging his feet in boredom while a woman tells him something from her seat beside him. I scowl, marching into the office.

An older woman behind the desk glances up at me, expectant, but I ignore her. All the adrenaline from racing here has me pent up, finding this scene anticlimactic given the worried tone the woman on the phone had given, and it pisses me off. Maybe I'm a little more confrontational than I need to be. I can feel the horrible face I'm making as I sweep my eyes over Leo, looking for injuries. He looks fine. In awful clothes that I would rather die than dress him in but for all intents and purposes unscathed. The woman beside him – with her strawberry blond hair styled into a neat bob and dressed in the usual bland fashion of a librarian – isn't his teacher, and I don't recognize her at all.

“Leo,” I grunt, clutching my keys tightly.

Both of their heads shoot up, finding me immediately, and within seconds, Leo is on his feet, charging me to latch onto my leg. “Daddy!” he exclaims. Even his demeanor is normal, his usual cheer not dampened at all. Why the fuck am I here, then? He's fine. He looks fine.

Still, I pull him up into my arms, managing to note how the woman bristles as I do. I try to mask my distaste, wondering what her problem is absently. Hitching him on my hip, I sweep his hair off his forehead, planting a kiss there. My main concern is Leo, who I still can't help worrying over, coddling him softly. “What's up, punk? Where'd you get these clothes?”

“Lost 'n found,” Leo tells me, arms locking around my neck. “Are we going home?”

I finally make eye contact with the woman who had finally pushed to her feet, expectant. She purses her lips briefly, wide blue eyes pensive but determined. She is young. Well, older than me but younger than most teachers. 

“Mr. Kirstein, I'm Petra Ral, Leo's counselor.” She holds out her hand to shake mine politely, and after a minute of grappling with Leo to hold him with one arm, I comply. “If you could, I'd like to speak to you in private, please.” Pursing my lips, I nod. I'm on guard, anxious, but there's nothing much I can do. “If you'll leave Leo here, we can talk in my office.”

It takes extreme mental fortitude for me to release him. Like his first day of kindergarten, when I stood there holding him for fifteen minutes, not wanting to give him up. I'd been more nervous than he had, and it was the same now. Grudgingly, I lower him to his feet again, and he wanders to the closest chair while Ms. Ral guides me toward a door behind the front desk that has a freshly minted plaque that reads “Petra Ral” and below it, “Councilor.”

Memories of elementary and high school flood the back of my mind, making me weary, but I bury them down. I'm not a kid any more. I'm not in trouble, I try to convince myself. But it's not going well. We sit on our respective sides of a bulky desk that's about three sizes too big for this closet of an office, and she laces her fingers in that way they always do, leaning forward. It makes me lean back, slouching in my seat. I can't say I feel like much of an adult, sulking as this woman stares me down, wanting to blow up but feeling confined in these tight quarters.

“Mr. Kirstein... I guess I'll get right to the point. We're not accusing anybody of anything, but knowing the situation is half the battle. We need to know what's going on, and if Leo is in any danger. As a school, it is our responsibility to know all of our students are safe and taken care of. We don't want to involve the authorities yet, until we have the full story, but...”

It's funny now she says she'll get to the point while doing the exact opposite – skirting around whatever the fuck she's talking about. I try to keep my face from screwing up in anger, try to keep my cool, but my hands grip the arm rests of my seat, and I feel myself sitting up a little. “What are you saying? Are you telling me my son is in danger?” I spit the words, but the confusion leaks in. I don't understand. What is going on?

“Mr. Kirstein,” Ms. Ral says, almost as if she's shocked by my ignorance. But how can I know what she's talking about when she won't even tell me? “Leo's teacher found bruises on his body after he spilled juice on himself.”

I blanch.

For a few long moments, it's only silence between us. My throat is dry and tight, clogged with what feels like a lemon lodged in my windpipe. It takes me licking my lips, for me to finally rasp out, “Bruises?” My eyes are wide and unblinking. Bruises. Who? I can't even be angry, not yet at least. A voice in the back of my head is muttering something about killing anybody who hurt my little boy but another, louder voice is just in total shock, thoughts racing through my head so fast I can barely keep up. _Bruises._

Then, it dawns on me. And before she even has to say it, I remember, all of it rushing back at once. But I let her tell me anyway, “Yes, on his left shoulder. It looks like someone grabbed him very roughly.”

I know. There are a few bumps and bruises still on his hips and back from being thrown over and pinned down beneath Marco's war-hardened body. The image is still fresh in my mind, like an open wound that I'd only haphazardly covered with band-aids. Hearing the clambering and quaking of Marco's bed, Titan's barking, rushing from my room to his, then Leo's scream. The fear in both of their eyes as they stared at each other. 

I couldn't tell who was more afraid. Marco had looked so scared, that wild kind of fear, reminding me of an animal trapped in a corner, with nothing left but his instincts, fighting to live, holding on to life by the skin of his teeth.

“You know,” Ms. Ral deduces, leaning back in her chair as if she were shocked. Her words pull me from the scene I keep replaying in my own head. What kind of expression do I have? I look up at her and she seems horrified. “Mr. Kirstein, did you...”

“God, no,” I bark out quickly. “I would never. I mean, fuck, I don't even spank him.” I run a hand through my hair, from my fringe all the way to the shaved back of my neck, rubbing tiredly. 

“It's just a misunderstanding,” I mutter under my breath, feeling somehow relieved, but not entirely. 

“A misunderstanding?”

I sigh, eyes carefully trained on my knees. “My... my friend, Marco,” I tell her at last. “He's... was a Marine. He's got some mental and physical problems. PTSD, mostly. He's been staying with me for about a month, now, and – He loves Leo! He's so good with him, but, this weekend, we had a bit of a... accident, I guess. I don't know. Leo startled him – snuck up on him while he was sleeping –, and he freaked out. It was an accident. He would never hurt Leo...”

“Don't you think it's dangerous to have someone with such severe mental problems living with your son?”

“Marco is part of our family,” I hiss, finding her eyes. It takes her aback but fuck if I'm going to let her talk about him like that. Like he's a criminal. The kindest man I've ever met, and she thinks she can talk about him like that? “You don't understand what he's been through. He needs us.”

“Mr. Kirstein...” Is it concern in her voice or warning? I don't care. I just don't fucking care.

“No,” I snap, pushing to my feet. I'm scaring her. I can see it in her eyes. But I won't stop. “We're a family. It was a one time thing, and you're acting like he's abusing my son, and that I would just let any man under my roof, around my son, without trusting him?”

And though she doesn't speak or move, I feel like I've been slapped. Because isn't that exactly what I've done? I hadn't known Marco Bodt before this. I'd taken one look at him, at his kindness, at his sweet chocolate eyes, and cute freckled cheeks, and I'd let him in my home, into my family, and as soon as he'd broken down all my defenses, earned my trust and my affection, he'd hurt my baby. I feel the rage building. I'm so stupid. I let him do this to me, let him and his stupid dog make a nest in my heart, and when he'd stomped all over it and shit on the remains, I'd forgiven him without a second thought, holding him, because that's what he needed.

_No!_

I rub my forehead with the back of my arm, like trying to wipe away fog on a windshield. He needs me, I remind myself. Leo and I, our home, it's the last chance he's got. The last place he can turn to. I remind myself everything I'd told him that day. He isn't perfect, but he isn't that person either. I'd held him to me and known he wasn't because of how tenderly he'd held me back, face buried in my neck. He's not that person, he's kind and shy in the strangest moments, and he loves Leo. And maybe he's troubled and has his issues, but he's not a bad person.

“Mr. Kirstein,” Ms. Ral sighs, “I understand. But you understand that if something happens to Leo again, I have to involve the authorities, right?”

“It won't happen again,” I growl, trying to still my raging pulse, carefully unclenching my fists. “I'd like to take my son home now, if you don't mind.”

“Y-yes. School lets out in about thirty minutes anyway...”

* * *

“You're home early!” Marco's voice is surprised but cheerful. 

I dump Leo's backpack on the floor by the door, leaning on it after I slam it behind me. Leo looks up at me as he sits on his butt, pealing off his sneakers. Eyes closed, I slump back against the door, raking my fingers through my hair hard enough to tear away a few strands. 

“Is something wrong?”

I don't want to tell him. Don't want to pile more guilt on him than he already has to deal with. He doesn't need this. Sighing, I squeeze the bridge of my nose. Is there any way around this? I hear Leo push to his feet and waddle off, and Titan's steady deep breaths from where he lazily naps on a corner of the rug in the center of the room.

Marco spans the length of the room, the gentle keen of the floorboards beneath him barely noticeable, but the off-tempo thumps on the hardwood floor giving him away. He's becoming nimble on his prosthetic, not as clunky and uneven as he once was. The cane sits forgotten in a corner of his room now. In any other moment, I would swell with pride, knowing that he probably wouldn't have progressed this far in such a short amount of time had he not come to us. But my head is too muddled with today's events, and I've begun to crash from my previous adrenaline rush. 

“Jean?” His voice is warm with concern, and much closer than before. “What's the matter?”

I can't do this right now. I shake my head, brushing him off. As I stride past him, pretending it doesn't kill me to see his dejected face, I feel a stab in my gut. I don't want to blame him for being in a good mood while I'm like this, driving myself crazy with worry. Considering how rare his good days are, I refuse to bring him down, but I find myself doing exactly that as I ignore his voice at my back, climbing the steps to escape to my room.

I don't blame him for his problems. It's not that. I know the way he came back, none of that is his fault. But, I hadn't known it would be this hard. Not that I thought it was going to be a cake-walk. But, keeping it here, in our home, that I can handle. In a controlled environment, I can handle it, and I can be a rock for him. But having it invade everything else, having his trauma follow Leo to school... What do I do now? I'm sure the councilor thought I was abusing my son before I told her Marco's situation, and it's a relief that she knows I'm not, that I never would raise my hand to Leo. Even with my short temper, I've never hurt him. But the look she gave me when I said I wouldn't give Marco up, as if that was somehow just as bad as striking my own child. As if I'm endangering him just by keeping Marco close to me.

And the worst part, is knowing that Marco agrees. I know if he had anywhere else to turn, he would have run from us, would have hidden himself away and gone into that same place he was in when he first came to us. He's progressed so far, even if it's only small baby steps, sometimes one forward and two back. Even if it's not perfect, and he's still troubled in so many ways, I can see how different he is compared to two months ago. Even if he can't see it. Something like this, it's nothing compared to the happiness we've had together. His medication has been working wonders, and I really think Titan helps him a lot, keeping him here with us. But he still doubts himself, and I don't know how to help him with that.

I shake my head in a shitty attempt at dislodging these negative thoughts, walking to the master bathroom. My reflection in the mirror reminds me of death, the hollow look in my eyes, deep set scowl, and eleven lines harshly contrasting the pale skin between my brows. I rub my face roughly to reset it to blank before I turn the faucet so I can splash cool water over myself. I brace myself on the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain, and wonder what the hell I'm supposed to do to fix this.

Just barely, half hidden under the rush of water in the sink, I hear a gentle rapping on the closed door to my room. I turn off the stream, waiting. 

“Jean.” 

I purse my lips. 

“Can... can I come in?” 

I can see his worried expression in my mind, the slight pout of his lips, thin brows furrowed, the freckles splattered on his cheeks darker than usual almost, the nervous way he would touch the length of his index finger to the underside of his nose, itching lightly. He's worried about me.

“Yeah,” I call back after a while, turning to close the bathroom door most of the way. Once I hear that familiar creak of the door being pushed open, the uneven clunking of his broken steps, I tell him, “I'm just gonna take a piss real quick.”

Even though I left the door cracked, we can't see each other from where I stand before the toilet, not even in the reflection of the mirror. I can almost hear him pacing with slow, uneven steps around the room as I unzip my fly and let myself go. He's never been in my room before, I note absently. It's at the end of the hall, and he's never really had a reason to be here before. It's strange, when I consider how often we've sat on his bed, conversing after Leo is asleep, or I come in to return his clean and folded laundry to him.

After zipping up and flushing, I wash my hands quickly, whipping them on my jeans as I nudge open the door again. 

I don't see Marco at first, not expecting him to be out of sight at my direct right, daintily lifting a picture frame that had been pushed over on its face to hide the photograph inside. He is bent over slightly, fingers softly resting on the cold iron of her shrine as he peeks at the center-most photo. I can just barely see the picture, her image frozen on glossy paper, ebony hair still but flowing to the left and slightly windblown, her hand raised to sweep a bit of her rich dark hair behind her ear. I could describe that entire photo to the most minuscule detail just from memory. But I yank my eyes away from it too quickly, reaching out to snatch Marco's hand away by the wrist, letting the wood frame smack down onto the iron table with a dull crack.

“Don't,” I hiss, releasing him. He straightens out in surprise, and I know I've hurt him. It makes me cuss under my breath, looking at the ground to avoid his big brown eyes staring holes in me. Then, turning, “Where's Titan?”

“Napping,” Marco murmurs. 

I try to think of what to say next, but Marco beats me to the punch. “Jean, what's the matter? Did something happen?”

I don't want to tell him, I don't want to know what his reaction will be. “I... don't want to talk about it,” I say, unable to hide it from him. I try anyway, turning away from him.

“Jean,” he chides behind me. Don't, don't do that. Don't worry over me. That's my job. I'm the one who... “You... you always speak your mind. Why are you holding back now?” I grudgingly glance over my shoulder at him. His smile is tight, but there, an ever present trait of his that soothes me. Even when he's anxious or tired or frustrated, he still tries to smile for those around him. And he's right. I've never been one to keep things from people before – least of all my feelings. I don't know why I want to shield him so much.

It's with a sigh that I trudge back to him, leading him to the foot of the bed where I sit him down and plop down beside him. Instantly, my elbows find my knees and I'm hunkered over myself, trying to find the words. We sit in silence for a moment, Marco letting me gather my thoughts as my mind races. Finally, all I can think to say is, “Leo's school called me in today.”

And as I expect, given my tone, Marco bristles. “Did something happen?”

“Well, not exactly...” That feels like a lie. Straightening out, I clear my throat. “I mean, I had to talk to his councilor because... They saw the... the, um, bruises... that, that you left on his shoulder. And, I think at first she thought it was me, that I was abusing him or something. But I told them, the truth, that he'd snuck up on you and... That it was an accident. She didn't take you staying with us very well.”

Marco lets out a long breath through his nose, as if he has been holding it all this time. “Jean...”

“No,” I snap, latching onto his hand where it rested between us on the comforter. Is it anger that makes my face flair up, or desperation? Either way, I lean into him, begging almost, or maybe scolding. “Not you, too. We've been over this!”

Marco sighs, looking away from me, out the window on his other side. He squeezes my hand, though, almost as if he's afraid to let go, almost as if I'm the only thing tethering him to the ground. 

“You know... I haven't stopped thinking about it, since it happened, how afraid he looked in that moment. I don't ever want him to look at me that way again. And at first I thought leaving you two would be the best way to ensure Leo never thinks of me as a threat again, but... I think a better way is staying here, slowly earning his trust again – both of your trust. I don't want you to be on edge around me. I don't want to have to walk on eggshells my entire life. I want to get better. And... staying here, I feel better than I have in a long time.”

I sigh in relief, letting each muscle in me relax slowly. I don't realized how tense I am until he gently releases the pressure on my fingers. 

“Jean, don't get mad at me for saying this, but... I think, both of us have our problems. And... I think I need you most of all, because you aren't strong.” I blink and my lips part in a stupor. “Please, hear me out. You aren't strong. And you've been damaged, too. So you understand what it's like for someone like me, and you can empathize with weak people like me. It makes you a better person, I think, the bad things you've been through, because you can lead people like me, and help me in a way no one else has been able to. 

“You tell me what I need to hear and you're here for me when I need it. You don't look down on me, and you don't baby me. Like...” He itches is nose in that way he does, looking down. It's oddly endearing, a familiar habit of his that reminds me of what makes him, him. 

“When I was in the hospital, I think the worst part was being pushed around in that damn wheelchair. I couldn't do anything myself, couldn’t even use the bathroom by myself. But eventually, after a while at PT, they finally let me move onto crutches, so I could get used to being upright again when my prosthetic came in. And finally, finally, I could move by myself again. I mean, it wasn't perfect, I would be helpless without those crutches, but I was doing things myself, and I was independent again. It was so insignificant, just being able to hobble around on two big rod-iron sticks, and yet, that was more empowering than any of the medals I earned.

“I... I don't know why I started telling you all of this.” Marco chuckles suddenly, his cheeks flushing pink. But even if he doesn't get it, I think I do. Maybe not entirely, but a part of me gets it. The soothing tone of his voice calms me in just the way I needed. And I find myself seizing his hand again, finding his eyes. And as we stare at each other, I begin to wonder just when his eyes had become this warm.

He leans toward me, tilting forward slowly, until I can feel his breath on my upper lip. It's so painstakingly slow, the room so still and silent, and yet I can feel the slow, steady pulsations of my arteries sending blood through every inch of me. Marco's pink tongue peaks out to, pursed between his lips briefly to wet them before disappearing again. I feel hot, my hands dampening with sweat, my neck is on fire, but I'm frozen in place. 

And just when I'm about to close my eyes and leave the rest up to fate, he tips his head, so his forehead rests on mine.

A weight in my chest sinks well below my stomach.... is this disappointment? What did I think was going to happen? I don't even know. This is Marco. _Marco..._ Without really giving it much thought, I lift my free hand, reaching up to let it rest on his chest, the flat of my palm directly between his well-muscled pectorals. I can feel his heart racing, and it contrasts with my steady pulse. He chews his bottom lip, finding my eyes again. I fist the fabric of his shirt over his chest, wondering what I'm doing.

All I know is something pivotal has changed here. And I can't quite place it, but something in Marco's eyes look different than before. I can't put my finger on it, and I'm embarrassed by our close proximity, such a total violation of normal friendly personal space, but before I can think about it more, I hear Leo calling from downstairs, and we leap away from each other, and the moment is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a thing. I'm a sucker for referencing canon in fanfiction. Lmao. I did my version of the scene. THE scene. You know what I'm talking about. Lmao. I dunno, but I just really wanted to include a moment like that in this story. Tada.
> 
> Also, the title of the story has been mentioned. Roll credits. Joking, but yeah. This analogy has a purpose. It's kind of a reoccurring theme, hence why I chose it for the title. c: Hi, friends. My name is addesin and I like to pretend I know how literary tools work. c: 
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments and such, you all are so kind! <3
> 
> (p.s. FINALLY a hint of the impending romance. It's only been six chapters! I know, I know... I'll get to it, eventually...)
> 
> (p.p.s. Oh yeah, btw, aside from the high school au I also have a one-shot in the works that explains Erwin and Levi's relationships in this au c: They will appear again a few times in this story but I fleshed them out so much more than how much I use them that I wanted to show you guys exactly what I had in mind for them as far as how they met and what their relationship is like, etc. It will actually probably move into close to the end of this story's arc or maybe even after it, idk yet... We'll see! c:)


	7. Reminisce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco meets the rest of the family...  
> (Marco's point of view)

Crowds had never been a problem for me before. Or even during. And after, I know they shouldn't be a problem for me now. The rational part of my brain says that there's little chance of danger in a gym full of parents, close family, teachers, and sixty kindergarteners in American suburbia. That the statistical probability of a disaster – from a fire to a school shooting – is so slim, it shouldn't even cross my mind. That I have Titan at my feet and Jean sitting beside me, that they even accommodated me enough to place us to the side with a pregnant mother, two grandmothers in walkers, and a man with spina bifida rather than thrusting me into the rows of folding chairs where the rest of Jean's family sits.

And yet...

And yet, I'm on edge. I try to be strong, for Leo, and to not embarrass Jean. But my good leg bounces nervously and I sit on the tip of my seat, a few inches from teetering off entirely. And as the principal stands to make a small speech on the stage behind the basketball goal, I'm breaking a sweat. It's an irrational sort of fear, and I know that. I'm perfectly aware of it, and that's the worst part. Because every sane part of me is telling me me that I'm being stupid, and at the same time, a faint voice in the back of my head murmurs _“what if..._ ”

And I can see bombs falling on the roof and wrecking havoc on all these innocent families. I can see dirt and grenades flying through the stagnant, filtered air. I can see Jean with eight nickel-sized holes sprinkled across his chest, leaking hot, red fluids. I can feel the weight of an M-16 in my arms, and I know exactly how many seconds it would take for me to empty the magazine and reach for a new one. I can see carnage and fire and women screaming and children crying. I can see it all right in front of me, clear as day.

I feel Titan sit up, focusing on me and pulling me from my imagination. He whines at me, resting his head on my crotch and nosing my belly to grab my attention. A soft, uncalloused hand rests on mine on my knee. Jean looks at me, offers a crooked smile and squeezes, pulling me from my imagination. He wraps his fingers around mine, pulling my hand into his lap, squeezing it again. 

“You're okay,” he whispers. _We're okay. We're all okay._ “You're doing so good.”

Though my mouth is dry, I force myself to believe him. I focus my attention on the ceremony. I see Leo sitting in the second row with the rest of his classmates. He looks over his shoulder, finding Jean and I and waving surreptitiously before facing forward again. I try to listen to what one of the kindergarten teachers is saying but it's becoming increasingly difficult to ignore my clammy hand secured safely in Jean's, on his thighs, the almost painful pressure of his grip.

Is he nervous, too? In a way, this is as big of a day for him as it is for Leo. A signifier that he is a good father, that he's made it this far, got Leo through one year of schooling successfully. Even with everything he's gone through up until this point – even doing everything by himself, even while taking my weight on his shoulders –, that he's done it. So could it be that he's holding my hand because of his own nerves, to calm the both of us?

For the thousandth time, I'm reminded of the events of less than two weeks ago. The embarrassment floods back as fresh as ever, and I can still feel his warm forehead on mine, his wispy fringe tickling my brows, his hand fisting my shirt, keeping me close. I still taste his salty breath, even now, and for the millionth time I wonder what it's like to explore the wet of his mouth with my tongue. What would he have done if I'd closed the space between our lips? Would he have hit me? But... even when I first leaned in, he hadn't flinched...

I'm pulled from my thoughts when the rows of kindergarteners begin to stand, prompted by whatever the teacher on stage had said. At first I wonder if they are going to head up onto the stage and receive their “diplomas” or whatever certificate is being handed out, but each child heads into different corners of the room, invading the rows. I regret not paying better attention, wondering what is going on, if it's over already.

Leo beelines toward us, and it is then that I first notice the white carnation in his hand. He holds it out to Jean, who takes it wordlessly. It's only when Leo hugs him that he lets go of my hand, and though he seems surprised at first, Jean quickly wraps his arms tight around the boy, squeezing him to his chest tightly enough to bring Leo's little feet off the ground. I can't help feeling that I'm invading some private moment by sitting here watching them, but it's impossible to pull my eyes away. Especially when I notice the dampness gathering above Jean's cheeks, somehow managing to have escaped his lashes despite how he squeezes his eyes tight.

It almost seems forbidden, but given how he's been there for me, through everything, I can't help myself, reaching out to rest a hand between his shoulder-blades, rubbing small circles on his back until he lets out a shaky breath and releases Leo, sweeping his hair from his brow adoringly.

“I love you, Daddy,” Leo chimes, reaching up to peck his cheek before scampering back to his seat with all the other kids. 

And though he doesn't have time to respond before Leo is out of earshot, Jean murmurs the phrase back to him anyway before biting his bottom lip. “I love you, too, punk.”

We're silent until Leo finds his seat again. I haven't moved my hand from Jean's back, and he hasn't shifted out of my touch so I don't risk moving. I might as well enjoy this small moment of intimacy – or whatever you would call it – while I can. After the ceremony continues, and Jean looks down at the flower in his hand, he lets out a shaky breath, and I don't miss the fresh stream falling from his eyes. 

“I'm not crying,” he tells me with a breathless chuckle. “There's an eyelash in my eye.”

“I know.”

“Shut up, I'm not!” he scolds in a whisper. I let him jab his shoulder into my side as he rubs his eyes furiously. “It's just a damn eyelash.”

“You've done a good job,” I tell him instead of answering. I wonder if it's okay, but ultimately decide fuck it and secure my arm around his back. “You've done a great job with Leo.”

In my peripheral vision, I can see his jaw clench as he tries to curb his tears. Under his breath, just barely loud enough for me to hear, tenderly, a weak croon, “Thank you.” 

He leans into me, and I don't mind holding the both of us up, stilling his quaking shoulders with the strength of my grip. Then, he's tilting forward, elbows secured between his knees and clamps both hands over his mouth to keep the noises in.

“Hey, you're okay,” I tell him, rubbing his back. It's embarrassing in the strangest way, trying to comfort a grown man breaking down in an elementary school gym as his son finishes his first year of schooling. I never would have imagined I'd be in this situation. Least of all with Jean, who acts like he can handle anything. The words finish themselves naturally, without a single thought. “We're okay. We're all okay.”

I let him cry. When was the last time he was able to let go like this? All the stress that must build up from raising a child on your own, having to be strong for Leo at all times, and then my problems on top of all of that. He's been carrying my weight with me along with all his own, never once complaining, being my strength when I have none, even while Leo needs him. I can't imagine how he did it for five years even before me, let alone when I came to live with them. And somehow, after nearly three months, this is the first time he's shown the slightest sign of weakness.

Would it be different if she were here? The woman in those photographs. I wonder if she's Leo's mother. They share the same black hair but all of Leo's other features seem to come from Jean. It's hard to tell, with untrained eyes like mine. But catching me looking at her picture had certainly struck a nerve with Jean. I wonder what it would be like if she were still here. Would she comfort him in my place? Or would be anything to comfort him for? If she was here, he wouldn't have to do everything by himself. If she was here, would my staying with him even be a possibility?

I can't deny that there's a certain amount of jealousy toward her, whoever she is. I'm envious of the bond they share, of the child they were able to have together. 

But where is she? And what made her leave? He's never told me about her, except in passing. It's as if he doesn't want to linger on thoughts of her for too long, which makes me think he must still love her, in some way. Is he still not over her? What if she were to walk through the front door tomorrow, would he drop everything for her? Would he drop me?

I shut down that line of thought immediately, afraid of what answers my imagination would give me. I don't want to think about it. Instead, I concentrate again on rubbing Jean's back, focusing on the present, on what we have now, whatever that is. Even if I don't have and never will have the... romance with him I fantasize about, this relationship that we have now, I cannot deny that it's special. And for that I'm grateful, for his trust in me and this weak side of himself that he lets me see.

When he has calmed down, he rubs his eyes raw, hiccuping weakly, and I can't help myself.

Even in this crowded room, where a few months ago I wouldn't dream of being seen this close to another man, I turn his face to mine so I can rub the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. Maybe I want to show him that I can do this for him, the same way he's done for me so many times. I don't know... I can't tell if he's embarrassed by our close proximity or by his outburst or if the red of his cheeks is a result of crying himself out but his eyes won't meet mine and I don't push it, letting him compose himself from then on. I move my arm from his shoulders to the safety of the back of the folding chair he sits on, leaning back against my own in resignation.

“I'm okay now,” Jean assures me, facing forward, sniffling slightly. “I... sorry.”

The word sounds foreign coming from him. He doesn't usually apologize for much of anything. I want to appreciate it, but I'm thrown off by how odd it sounds coming from him. 

“It's okay,” I murmur. “I don't think anyone saw.”

Jean doesn't respond. I try to focus on what's left of the ceremony, glad that I catch something along the lines of them starting to hand out the kids' certificates and then the snacks being available in the front of the gym.

And though they ask families not to cheer until all the kids have gone through, no one pays much mind to the rule. It doesn't take long to notice some of the same people cheer each time, no matter what kid is stumbling across the stage, offering polite clapping and even a whistle of encouragement to make up for some of the smaller families or just to make the kids feel special. Soon, Jean is smiling again, caught up in the mood I think, especially when Leo's name is called and a boisterous cheer erupts from the center of the audience. I distinctly make out a deep voice among the others exclaiming, “Oi, that's my nephew!”

He laughs, whipping his eyes again briefly before continuing his clapping as Leo trots down the three or four steps leading down from the small stage. “That suicidal bastard's gonna get us kicked out,” he chuckles under his breath.

Leo waves at us and then those of Jean's family who remained in the main throng of people before taking his seat again. 

And as we continue to cheer for kids who I don't know, I notice that Jean is smiling, albeit more gently than usual, telling me that now at least I don't have to worry. “I'm fine, really,” he mumbles, eyes trained on Leo still. “Stop looking at me like that.” When I don't respond immediately, “You don't need to worry about me, Marco. That's my job, remember?”

Is it? I have to remind myself that even if he's usually so composed, a good father and a responsible person who I rely on, he's still younger than me, that he's still a kid in so many ways, forced to grow up too soon to raise his son. 

“It's okay to let me worry about you sometimes,” I tell him, itching my nose. “It's okay for you to rely on me occasionally... I don't mind.”

Jean offers a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “I'm a big kid,” he tells me. “I'm fine.”

I want to be in his head, want to know what he's thinking. 

Instead, I follow him as he goes to meet Leo as the kids are dismissed to go find their respective families. Somehow, while I was distracted with thinking about Jean, I missed that Leo has already left his seat and is wandering through the crowd, looking for what I assume is the rest of their family. Just as we're nearing his side, Leo takes off again, finding whoever he was looking for. “Uncle Armin!” he cries, disappearing through the crowd.

Jean hadn't had the chance to meet up with his family before the ceremony, so this is the first time I am seeing them. Two older women – one more full bodied than the other –, an older man with long hair tied back in a low ponytail, and three guys around Jean's age. There is a short fellow with his hair buzzed close to his scalp, reminding me of how I'd looked just after returning from my tour, a blond in the midst of scooping up Leo in his arms, and a boisterous fellow with a face similar to the thinner of the two women.

“Marco, this is... everybody,” Jean tells me, making a haphazard gesture at the group. “Everybody, this is my friend, Marco Bodt.” Friend... I purse my lips, trying to bite back a smile. We're friends... But Jean's smile falters and he looks mildly troubled for a moment. “Wait... where's Sash?”

The shortest of them, the one with almost no hair, throws a thumb over his shoulder, sneering. “I'll give you one guess.” 

We peak around him to the front of the gym, and every one's eyes seem to train on where a brunette with a handful of cookies and a red Solo cup is walking against the current of people trying to leave. As she comes up behind the short guy, with a full mouth and crumbs already littering the corners of her mouth, she chimes, “Ah, this that Mark guy?”

“Marco,” Jean corrects, brow twitching. I try to hide my chuckle behind my hand but Jean notices, rolling his eyes at me knowingly. He certainly has an interesting family. 

“Alright. Where to start? Marco, this is my boss and honorary dad, Dr. Grisha Jaeger.”

And so begins the hand shakes. The older man offers his hand to me, smiling politely. I notice the faintest hint of graying appearing around the rich brown hair near his temples, and wonder what his exact age is. 

“Pleased to meet you,” I chirp quickly. For some reason, the image of a high schooler meeting his crush's father before he takes her to prom comes to mind. But unlike the usual stereotype I picture in my head, Dr. Jaeger is courteous and not the least bit suspicious of me. _I've been reading too many dollar store novels..._

“A pleasure,” he replies. “Jean tells me you've been a big help around the house.”

“Oh...” I find myself blushing at the idea of Jean talking about me to his boss and... Honorary dad? “N-not really...”

Before I can think about it more, though, Jean is directing me along, “And this is his wife, my back-up mom, Carla.” The thinner woman nods at me, and we share a brief handshake before Jean carries on, “And that brat is their son Eren –”

“Oi, who you calling a brat?” The guy cuts in, but Jean talks over him like he hadn't even spoken.

“– He's basically like a brother to me. Or maybe a family dog?”

Despite his grumbling, Eren shakes my hand, telling me under Jean's voice, “This horse-faced idiot is just jealous of my stunning looks.” His smile is cocky but good-natured, telling me that though they bicker, he and Jean must be really good friends.

“And this is Eren's best friend since diapers and Leo's godfather, Armin Arlert,” Jean continues, wrapping an arm around the small blond with Leo hitched on his hip. “Armin and I go way back,” he adds with a chuckle.

His youthful face and bright blue eyes strike me as surprisingly intelligent but also, I don't miss the gentle way Jean rests his hand on the small of his back, smiling fondly down at him. I also don't miss the minuscule details of how effeminate his posture is, the meticulous styling of his clothes, the perfection that is his glistening, blond hair. There's a heat on my neck that I recognize as jealousy, and though I don't want to, I wonder if I could be just a little more small, a little more feminine and cute in the same way Armin is, if Jean would look at me like that. I wonder what sort of past they have...

“It's nice to meet you, Marco,” Armin chimes, shifting his weight and adjusting Leo on his hip so he can free a hand to offer to me. Reluctantly, I take it, squeezing lightly for fear of hurting his small hands. He smiles, and I hate myself for letting jealousy get the better of me. “I hope we can be friends.”

“Yeah...” I murmur, looking down at him. He's nice, and I regret resenting him. But the look in his eyes startles me, as if he's dissecting me here and now, staring at me from under a microscope.

We're still holding each others' hands as Jean goes on, “This midget is Connie, and this is Sasha. They work with me at Papa's office...” Armin and I look up at him, and he blinks back at us as if he'd forgotten what he was saying. Then, shaking his head, he seems to blush. “I mean, Dr. Jaeger. Sorry. I spend too much time with Leo.” There's a round of chuckles, and a particularly loud laugh from Eren, who elbows his father, and though I don't catch what he says, it makes Grisha cackle in return. “Anyway, they're basically family so...” 

Then, he takes my arm, pulling me from Armin's prying eyes at last and leading me to the plump older woman on the fringe of the group. He guides us toward each other, smiling “Marco, this is my Ma, Adele.” He wears the biggest crooked grin, his cheeks still flushed from his slip up, and perhaps the excitement of the moment. Then, leaning closer to me almost conspiratorially, he adds in a faux whisper, “But you can just call her Ma. She loves it.” 

He chuckles, then tells his mother, “Ma, this is Marco.”

And suddenly I'm being hugged.

I hear Jean somewhere, “Ehh, Ma!”

But everything is engulfed in warmth, and the homely smell of pumpkin spice and cinnamon. I hadn't expected her to be so strong. I'd assumed her full figure to be the product of age and perhaps a love of food, but no, these arms are thick with muscle. She squeezes me tight and holds me firmly in place. I couldn't escape if I wanted to. But she's warm, and gentle. And I don't mind being hugged by this woman. If it's her, I feel like a child again, wanting to be coddled to her bosom, and kept safe from the world. I wonder what memories Jean has of her from his childhood.

Finally she releases me, holding my face in both hands as she looks up at me. “Thank you for staying with my boy,” she coos. “I know he is comforted having someone with him and Leo in that big house.”

“ _Maaa,_ ” Jean whines beside us. “Don't do this here!”

I can only laugh helplessly as she continues. “I know he can be troublesome, he's a difficult boy, but please get along with him.”

“Ma!” I find him in the corner of my vision, rolling his eyes and huffing peevishly. It makes me laugh more, pleased to see him this lively.

“Of course, ma'am,” is all I can say, and I let her pet my hair and rub my cheeks, looking me over.

“So handsome,” she muses, and my face heats up even further.

“Oh my god!” Jean moans, covering his face with his hands.

But I'm happy. His mother is kind, his family so lively and positive – a mish-mash of different people with distinct personalities. And even if some parts aren't related by blood, they're so close, so loving. It's so different from my small, quite military family. I can't help but think that Leo is really lucky to have such a great family to love him.

“We should head to the house,” I hear Mrs. Jaeger say behind me. “Let's have dinner together.”

“What a wonderful idea,” Jean's mother exclaims, looping her arm through mine, once again reminding me of a prom date, with me as her chauffeur.

“Hey, Marco,” the short guy pipes up. Connie, I recall. “Jean tells us you have a metal leg. Lemme have a look!” Jean fumes beside me, looking ready to pop a gasket, but I'm becoming more used to people's curiosity towards my prosthetic.

“Sure,” I chuckle, so as the rest of the group begins to head outside, Jean's mother, Connie, Titan, and I, loiter for a bit as I roll up my pant leg to show him my fake. Jean walks slowly, looking over his shoulder at us, and I can tell he's not content to leave me alone, but he seems to want to get a move on with the rest as well.

Connie squats down a bit to marvel at my fake, and I offer to take it off for him once we get to the new destination, which he seems ecstatic about. Then, as we begin to catch up with Jean, Connie pipes up again, “Hey, what's your dog's name?” It reminds me of my first few days with Leo all over again, though I don't mind.

* * *

“Marco and I will wash the dishes, so you ladies go relax,” Armin pipes up, suddenly ushering the women from the kitchen. The other men had already fled to the living room to avoid work, while I had been feeding Titan left over bits of turkey as the mothers and Sasha had been chattering absently as they gathered up the dishes from the table. I hadn't really noticed Armin was even still here until he spoke up. Of course, there's little protest as the mothers thank us for taking over and meander towards the den.

After we're alone, I find Armin leaning on the counter in front of the dishwasher, holding his elbows. He smiles at me. “Sorry to volunteer you,” he hums. “I just wanted to talk.” His eyes are warm, sincere, and I don't fear whatever it is he wants to talk about, but confusion keeps me silent. 

“Nothing bad,” he chuckles. “I just want us to get to know each other.”

As I'm left to wonder at the implications of his words, he turns away from me, beginning to scrape excess food off plates into the garbage before placing them in the sink. “In middle school and the first couple years of high school, Jean and I got really close. Well, Eren's always been my best friend, but Jean and I... what we had was different.”

The phraseology isn't lost to me. I come to stand beside him, beginning scrub whats left on a plate with the sponge. _What they had,_ he said. They had something. Once... Jean and Armin... But Jean is... He has Leo. Leo has a mother. I'm beginning to think I'm just not smart enough to piece this all together by myself. I never imagined the possibility of Jean being interested in men. Even men like Armin.

“I hope I won't make you uncomfortable telling you this,” he murmurs, looking up at me. And I can tell, this is his way of giving me a door of escape. I could just say the word and he'd drop the subject, spare me his story. 

But I want to know. I want to know the Jean that was before Leo, before this house, before she left. Subtly, I shake my head, and he smiles at me.

With a deep breath, he continues. “We never dated. But... we were very close physically and emotionally.” I can only imagine small, fragile Armin blushing as he tries to convey his relationship with Jean. But when I glance at him, he's smiling softly, as collected as ever, though his eyes are distant. “When we first found each other, it was just as outlets of our pent up energy. I don't think there was any other guys like like me in high school... Jean, even him, I think he could be happy with anybody, if their demeanor is right and they can put up with him.” Armin chuckles, rubbing his forehead with his wrist before handing me the next plate.

“Anyway, at first it was just sex, but, eventually, pillow talk became more common. We got closer and closer, telling each other everything. You learn interesting nuances about a person when you share a bed with him. He practically lived with me during that time. Parents were going through a divorce, and he just wanted to avoid it all, I think. It was freshman year that his parents found out about us, which only added to the turmoil at home, with his father mostly...”

After we've loaded the dishwasher to capacity, Armin pulls himself up on the island, swinging his legs absently. “I... I can't talk about what happened in our sophomore year of high school. Jean wouldn't want me to tell you. I know he wants to do it himself when he's ready. But, the end of our freshman year, Jean tells me he's in love with a girl.”

I blink and Armin smiles, though I can tell it's a smile similar to mine. To hide the pain, to keep calm. “He tells me he's liked her for a really long time, but after getting closer to her, he wants to truly be with her. And even though I'm jealous and heartbroken because even when you're not in love with someone, there's a certain amount of possessiveness you hold over that person when you bond with him... Even though I want to be angry and hate them, I cheer him on and help him get the girl of his dreams because, before being lovers, we're friends first.” Armin's eyes find mine through his bangs. 

I release a breath I didn't know I had been holding.

“You should get a chair,” he tells me. “I'm sure it's painful standing this long.”

I hadn't thought about it, being caught up in finishing the dishes and then Armin's story, but now that I'm thinking about it, my leg is feeling rather sore. I pull out a bar stool from the island, plopping down, relieved to have my weight off my stump. I'd like to take off my prosthetic, but I'd just have to reattach it to move again anyway so I leave it, instead absently kneading at what's left of my thigh that isn't covered by the carbon fiber mold.

Armin smiles, again, “Well, I think you've probably pieced together most of it. Teenage pregnancy, a shotgun wedding, this big house, everything somehow working itself out, and then... she's gone. And Jean... Jean is a wreck. And though I care for him so deeply, though all of us do, no one could pull him out of the depression he fell into afterward. Except the little baby that had come from the whole thing. It was Leo that saved Jean. While everyone was arguing over what to do with him, Jean at seventeen, became a father. And nobody was going to stop him. Leo turned him whole again, and though he was scared, he was determined to keep Leo and move on.

“And he does. For nearly six years now, he's been raising Leo on his own out of sheer stubbornness.

“And then you come.” 

I just gape stupidly. Do I say something to that? What does he want me to say? 

Armin slides of the counter, coming to my side to grab my hand. “Nobody thought to look for you two during the graduation, knowing you'd be sitting somewhere else. I don't think the rest of them could see you from where we were sitting anyway. But I could just barely make you out through the crowd. He trusts you that much... I'm jealous.” Briefly, I think that Armin's mind has wandered, but he only looks determined. “Take care of him okay? He's always trying to look out for everybody else, especially Leo. He never gives himself a break. I know you rely on him, but protect him, too, okay? He needs someone like that in his life. He just won't let anyone in to fill the position...

“Marco?”

“Yes?”

“You're gay, aren't you?”

I don't mean to, but I flinch. I feel every inch of his hand on mine. I feel my heart thundering in my chest. The remnants of the evening sunlight on my right arm filtering in through the window almost burn me. My eyes are dry. I've been so focused on listening to Armin that I seem to have forgotten to blink. So I do, rabidly. 

That startled me. Even after swallowing the lump in my throat, all I can get out is, “How?”

It's almost condescending, the way Armin chuckles but doesn't answer. But I don't think he means it that way. Rather, he bites his bottom lip. “And Jean, you like him, don't you?” 

_Like him..._ 'Like' would be an understatement. I look at Armin's small hand holding mine.

“You shouldn't let those feelings go to waste,” he tells me, “That boy, he's usually very blunt, but when it comes to matters of the heart, he's actually pretty shy.” Armin releases me, stepping away. “You should tell him how you feel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this one but I promised to finally finish it for Marco's/my birthday (~happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me~).
> 
> I may rewrite this one, we'll see. 
> 
> I tried to write this Armin as kind of an older version of himself, one where he starts as the Armin at the beginning of Shingeki, being very unsure of himself and vulnerable and weak, but then he grows up and comes into himself to become a very strong, intelligent, and levelheaded young man. I'm not sure I did a good job of conveying that but I tried. 
> 
> I'm sorry if you're displeased with this chapter. I just felt like I did a crummy job but I wanted to post it because I promised tumblr... (Never make promises about your writing, kids, NEVER. I'm an idiot.) I think it started out okay but somewhere along the lines, I just kind of... mehhhhh. :c
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos, friends. And in other news, if you're curious about updates or my general ramblings on this fic, you can track the tag [fic: crutches](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/fic:-crutches) on tumblr in which I use to keep track of my posts on it. Or if you just want to talk to me about the fic, that's cool, too. c:


	8. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean self-destructs and gets a wake-up call (this is normal for him though)  
> (Jean's point of view)
> 
> Alternate summary: In which Armin ships it so hard.

Marco fell asleep on the couch, on his back with his prosthetic and an arm hanging off the edge of the cushions and, to my amazement, with my son plastered across his chest, straddling his middle. I stare at them in amazement, listening to the soothing droning of their snoring – Marco's louder as he lets his head loll back and mouth hang open, Leo's softer and half muffled with his face being pressed into Marco's chest. They look so natural like that, Marco's hand resting on Leo's back and Leo's small fingers clutching Marco's collar.

“How long have they been like that?” I ask Armin, who has curled himself up on the other couch with Eren's varsity jacket and a paperback novel. I try to keep my voice down, just above a whisper, but it sounds loud even to my own ears, given the silence that hangs throughout the peaceful room.

“Hm?” He glances up, confused for a moment before his eyes land on the two sleeping forms adjacent to him. A soft smile crosses his features. “I don't know,” he giggles. “They were talking just a moment ago...”

I scoff, knowing it had to have been more than a minute. I know Armin well enough at this point to know he has a way of tuning out the rest of the world when he gets to reading. But there's no reason to scold him over it. He never learns anyway. I pull a blanket off the back of Armin's couch to drape across them, forced to stretch over Titan laying on his side in front of them. He half sits up when he smells me or hears me coming near – I'm not sure which –, but upon recognizing me, flops back down with a huff.

“By the way, did Eren go home? Are you going to need a ride back?” 

The two live together and usually go everywhere together. It's almost creepy, in a way, and if I didn't know them any better, I might think they were a couple, but Eren is painfully heterosexual, and Armin told me a long time ago he felt nothing but brotherly camaraderie for that hothead. Still, I have my sneaking suspicious of something more. Armin worships Jaeger like Mary Jane adored Spiderman. He may not be in love with him, but he definitely sees him as more than a best friend or even a brother...

“Mh, yeah. But he left me the car, so I'll be okay.” 

After a moment of silence with me scurrying around, tidying up the mess the small party had left, Armin pips up, as if he'd never stopped. “I wanted to talk to you.”

I scowl at him, unsure of how to read that. We've been talking on and off all day. He has had plenty of chances to say whatever it is he has in mind. Which brings the suspicion that it's one of his feelings-talks in which case I don't know if I necessarily want to go there. The feeling is compounded by the gentle tone of his voice, that doesn't match his calculating eyes. We stare each other down silently before I finally have to let out a huff.

“Whatever, but I've got laundry to do,” I grumble, stalking upstairs to retrieve the hamper from the bathroom. It's better if I don't see Armin's satisfied smirk after he gets his way. Will just make me angrier...

Coming downstairs, I'm struck still yet again by Marco's unconscious form, now shifted, turned on his side while cradling Leo still closer to his chest, chin buried in his hair. Setting the hamper down, I find myself squatting before them, arms crossing with my elbows resting on my knees, providing a resting place for my chin as I examine the pair's unconscious state.

It is then that I notice that Marco's hair is getting longer. When he first came to us, it was little more than a buzz cut, just barely growing out on the top. Now, his dark hair is long enough to part to the middle naturally, his fringe kept out of his face by a wild cowlick right at the peak of his hairline. Gravity causes a bit to fall over his forehead, given that he's on his side, but I ghost my fingers over his brow, sweeping the stray hairs away to give me a better view of his face, of how his brows turn up in innocence while he's in dreamland, looking so needy and helpless. My fingers linger on his smooth skin, though, traveling down. down to his mouth. I smear my thumb from the center of his bottom lip to the corner, and he makes a small noise in response, the warmth of his breath falling on my knuckles as he cuddles closer to Leo in his sleep, who in turn grasps at him tighter.

_Oh..._

My ears feel hot...

“Jean?” I hear Armin from across the room, standing in the threshold to the kitchen, waiting on me so we can head to the laundry room. How embarrassing to have him see me watching them like that.

I huff, pushing to my feet and snatching up the hamper as I head toward him. I push past him and crash through the house, escaping the scene in the living room. Vaguely, I realize Armin is following at a much slower pace, but I try to ignore him.

As I pull the string hanging from the ceiling in the laundry room to jolt electricity through the light bulb swinging overhead, Armin meanders in behind me, instantly heading to the dryer, pulling himself up to sit on top of it. He swings his feet absently, watching me as I being sorting through the dirty clothes, tossing any white articles I find into the washing machine.

As I'm finally pouring the detergent into the basin, the silence gets to be to much and I finally snap, “So what did you want to talk about anyway?”

“Have you been dating lately?”

I slam the lid of the machine down a little too hard and it makes a painful clang. “Wh-what?” I chirp, setting the dials correctly before starting up the washer. “Do I look like I have time to date? With a five year old?”

“You haven't even gone on one date since...”

He trails off. But he doesn't have to finish. The silence speaks more than the words ever could, and it's better this way. I scowl, but don't look at him, instead shooing his legs out of the way so I can open the dryer where a clean load waits to be ironed, folded, and put away.

“I went on that date with that chick Eren set me up with,” I defend myself, pulling out T-shirts and polos one at a time.

“That was three years ago,” Armin snorts, pushing himself back so he can cross his legs. “And you left fifteen minutes in because Leo started throwing up.”

I groan, throwing my hands in the air. “What was I supposed to do? He's my son!” I grab a shirt, perhaps a little too forcefully, crinkling it further. But it doesn't matter really as I promptly set it on the ironing board beside the washing machine. Flipping on the iron as I flatten the shirt. “Who is going to take care of him if I don't?”

Armin glowers at me. “Don't pretend for a minute you don't have seven wonderful people who would bend over backwards for that little boy. Even Marco...”

I pause. “What about Marco?”

“He adores that boy!” Armin snaps. “God, it's like you don't even know what Leo does to people. They fall in love with him, Jean. Have you ever met a creature on this Earth that wouldn't die for him? And you act like you're the only one who cares about him!”

I grit my teeth. “There was a point in time when I was,” I remind him, low, the rasp in my voice a mixture of pain at the truth of that statement and fear that somehow Leo could hear me.

“Jesus, Jean, we were seventeen! What do you expect?” Armin groaned. “It's not abnormal to put your future ahead of some kid you...” Armin sighs. “After she...”

“Don't,” I beg him, rubbing my eyes. “I don't want to do this right now.”

“Jean, you have to understand.” Armin leans forward, touches my wrist. And though I want to move out of his reach, I can't. Because it's him. “I'm not saying this to hurt you. The last thing I want is to see you in pain. But all of us, we were only thinking about your well being at the time. It's natural for other people not to take to a new baby as immediately as his parents do. For you, as soon as you saw him, you were completely head over heels for him, but for the rest of us...”

He doesn't have to say it; I know. 

I shake my head. Deep down, I know that they had been looking out for my best interest. When we found out, abortion had been the topic of all discussions for so long, just the thought of it made me nauseous. Time was ticking, they told us. If you don't hurry, soon it'll be too late. There will be no going back. But she refused and I did everything in my power to keep it that way. I guess I was stupid. My reasons were, at least. I thought if we had a baby, I'd never lose her, that she'd be tied to me forever. God, how wrong I was.

“I didn't want to argue,” Armin says, squeezing my fingers. 

He pulls me closer and I let him, until I'm pressed against the dryer and he can scoot forward to let his slender legs fall on either side of my waist. And though I don't meet his eyes, I can feel him watching me carefully. His fingers are warm on my cheeks, soothing. It brings back memories I thought I'd long since moved past. 

“We used to be so close. What happened?”

I shrug, not wanting to say it. But we both know. Some things never change, and over the years, even if Armin grew up and I became a father, we can still fall back into these same old patterns. Conversations dominated by silence with small bursts of passion in between. The brutal honesty of our characters playing off each other harshly to outside eyes, but for us it feels comfortable. I find my hands instinctively coming up to cup the back of his head, digits tangling in the locks of his golden hair, and our foreheads meet naturally.

“We could be that way again,” Armin murmurs, cupping my face, though his hands slowly travel down my neck, to my shoulders, then to my chest. He tips his head slightly, moving at less than a snails pace to close the space between our lips. “We work well together.”

But... He's never made my heart race the way she did. Or the way Marco does... We love each other. We're just not in love with each other. And though I can feel comfortable with Armin, though we fit together well, though our bodies are compatible, I can't find that same spark I found when Marco and I shared this position just a month before. I don't have a sort of giddy anticipation of something great, only the comfort of falling back into old habits.

I finally come to meet Armin's eyes, apologetic. But his eyes have a mysterious sharpness, something that would throw me off maybe if I didn't know him so well. 

“You thought of him, didn't you?” he murmurs, pulling away slightly, stroking my cheek. “Marco...”

I blanch, flinching. I hadn't meant to... Not really. It wasn't like I was trying to... Marco and I are just friends. I repeat that to myself a few times, until it starts to sound true again. Just friends. We're just friends.

“It only takes one look at you to see it,” Armin chuckles, holding my elbows now, to keep me close. “The two of you... don't act like normal housemates. Not even friends are as intimate as you two. Jesus, you introduced him to your mom like a teenager showing off her first boyfriend.”

I shake my head, trying to be firm to mask my blush. “Armin, I don't know what you're scheming but Marco is straight.”

“Have you asked him?” His face turns serious. “Have you ever heard him show even the slightest interest in women?”

“I –,” _I don't know. I've never thought about it!_ “We don't talk about stuff like that?”

“When do guys not talk about what they're into unless it's to hide something?” Armin scoffed. “Eren never shuts up about the kind of girls he's fucked, the kind of girls he wants to fuck, the kind of girls he'd never fuck.”

“Marco is nothing like Eren,” I snap. Thank god. The only thing they have in common is their ability to tan easily. “He's not obnoxious like that asshole. He's just shy and tends to keep his feelings to himself.”

Armin rolls his eyes. “I'm sure he'd be willing to share his feelings if you asked him,” he tells me.

I grumble, pushing away. I attach the ironing board with new vigor in hopes of distracting myself from this conversation.

“You don't really believe he's straight,” Armin jabs, hopping down from the dryer to come up beside me. “You're just afraid of the possibility of your feelings being returned and having to own up to that.”

“My feelings?” I squawk, scrambling with the iron. “Wh-what feelings? I don't have any feelings for Marco, Armin.”

“Don't play dumb,” Armin snorts, rolling his eyes. “It's not a good look for you.”

“Look, even if I have any supposed feelings for Marco – which I _don't_ –, and god forbid he liked me back – which why the hell would he? – we have to live together. What if something didn't work out? Where would he go? What would I tell Leo? He's already so attached to him... I can't risk ruining this.”

Armin scowls. “Just because you lost...” he cuts himself off, groaning in frustration. “Jean, you can't be afraid of losing the people you love. If you let your fear of abandonment rule your life, you're going to be alone and miserable forever. Sometimes love is a risk worth taking.” He moves to touch me, but I evade his hands, grabbing a fresh shirt to begin ironing.

“Jean, Marco deserves your honesty. He deserves to know how you feel about him. And he's a good guy. He's strong and he's lived through much more than the menial day-to-day bullshit that we have to deal with. He's not going to hurt you. And even if he does, it doesn't take knowing him long to know he'll spend the rest of his life making it up to you if he has to.” 

“You don't think I know that?” I moan, setting down the iron violently. “You don't think I don't know he's an amazing guy? You don't think I see how good he is to Leo and die a little inside because god, what if, just what if, he could stay with us forever and we could be a family, the three of us?” 

I feel my voice rising, becoming more desperate, but I can't stop myself. “You don't think I look at his scars – the ones inside and out –, and want to kiss every single one? I do! I really, truly do! I want to wake up to him in the morning and come home to him every night and have the perfect life and the perfect husband and the perfect son with our stupid fucking perfect dog who knows how to do shit I can't even do! I want all those things!”

I rake a hand through my hair, pulling at it as if somehow that would ground me.

“But it doesn't work like that! Armin, it just doesn't work. I'm not that lucky. I don't get my happy ending. I was so close. So fucking close. And it all got ripped away from me.”

There's a torrent of memories I'd been burying down for five years surfacing, and it makes my chest ache. Enough that it feels like it'll cave in any moment. It hurts. I clutch at my shirt as if that would stifle the pain. Of course, it doesn't. 

“I can't do that to myself again. If I lose someone else, I don't think I can pull myself back up again. I'm not that strong. I'm so scared, Armin. I'm so fucking scared that one day he's going to disappear. I can't let myself fall in love with him and then see him ripped out of my hands just like she was.”

Armin purses his lips. I can't read that raw expression in his eyes, too high strung with adrenaline to process his cryptic faces right now. This one is new and I don't know how to interpret it yet. It doesn't take long for my vision to become bleary enough that I can't even decipher his features in the first place. 

“Jean, look at you... You already have.”

I shake my head, turning away. Sometimes, this part of him, I hate it a little. The part that can make me say the things I don't want to say, that realizes things about me before I do, that unlocks the secrets I bury down as deep as I can as if they're nothing. I should have known I can't hide even this from him. Armin knows me better than anybody. Probably even my own mother. 

“I'm so fucked up,” I try to laugh humorlessly, but my chuckle turns in to the quivering of trying to hold in my tears. I've been crying too fucking much today.

I refuse to do it again.

Straightening my back, I clear my throat with conviction as I move to the ironing board again, running a shaky hand through my hair. Armin watches me pensively before he sighs, leaning on the washing machine. Apparently not minding the small vibrations and rumbles it lets out behind him. 

“Jean...”

“Jean, sorry... I feel asleep.”

We both jump to see Marco standing at the door, Leo still asleep in his arms and Titan at his hip. His hair is a mess at this point, and his eyes foggy and unfocused, but his smile and freckles are as charming as ever. He pauses for a moment to yawn before noticing Armin. 

“Oh, hi!” he chirps groggily. “I thought you went home...”

Armin smiles up at him fondly, “I'm just about to now.”

“Lemme put Leo to bed and I'll see you off,” he says pleasantly, rubbing Leo's back as he gently hitches him higher into his grasp. “Jean, sorry I didn't help this time...”

“It's fine, it's fine.” I wave him off, focusing on the last few T-shirts. “You can fold after Armin leaves.”

He nods, shuffling back toward the kitchen and probably up the stairs to Leo's room, the uneven clunking of his limp mixed with Titan's nails clicking on hardwood floor fading the further away he gets.

Armin turns to me. “Don't waste what time you have with him. Whether you like it or not, all things have to come to an end eventually – you could have him for only one more week or the next seventy years. Don't you think you should make the most of what time you get with him?” 

He purses his lips, pausing, as if deciding what he wants to say. “I just want you to be happy, Jean. If Marco makes you happy, I'll do anything I can to help you. Nothing has changed from seven years ago. I'll still support you no matter who you love.”

I let him hug me, wrapping his small arms around my mid-section, feeling his petit frame pressed to my back. Pausing to set down the iron yet again, I turn in his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead as I rest my arms on his shoulders. 

“I love you,” he tells me. “I just want you to find happiness.”

I nod, unable to find adequate words. I brush his hair behind his ears for him, wanting to tell him I know, and I'm grateful, but unable to produce the vocalization. “C'mon,” I say finally, leading him out to the living room again.

He's upbeat and affectionate with his goodbye to Marco, but since I keep my distance, I can't quite make out their words. There's even a closing hug between them before Armin gets in his car. He waves to us a final time before peeling out of the driveway, and leaving me alone with Marco and this awkward silence hanging between us like a raincloud.

Finally, leading the way back inside, I note, “So you and Armin seem to get along.”

Marco chuckles, rubbing at his nose in that way he does. “I was really nervous at first... He's quite intimidating for someone so small... But we got to talking after dinner and he's actually quite easy to open up to.”

“Ah, that's his secret. He lures you in with those big blue eyes then once you've told him all your secrets, he annihilates you with mental mambo-jumbo.” 

Marco gives me a startled look and I laugh, “I'm joking, bro.” 

I clap him on the shoulder, leading the way back to the laundry room once more. “But seriously, do not get on his bad side. I saw him reduce a linebacker to tears in high school once for calling him a fag.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long Ass Chapter Notes Coming At You.
> 
> So Jean kind of exploded... I don't know if I conveyed this properly, and I apologize if it wasn't clear, but I wanted the narrative to be accurate to how I've personally experienced fear-to-commit sort of scenarios. Basically, to this point, Jean has been struggling with the same attraction as Marco, almost even on a deeper level, but because of reasons, he just shuts down in the love department and completely ignores any sort of "feelings" he has for other people, in this case Marco, because god forbid "reasons" repeat themselves. So like, there are times in his past chapters where he describes Marco as "part of his family," and while he does mean that in the broader sense of familial love, like the way he loves Armin or Eren (Eren's complicated -- we won't go there lmao), it was also a way to redirect the desires to "start a family" so to speak with Marco, by putting him in this box of "relative" rather than "potential lover." So having to confront the fact that he does indeed want to do the frick-frack and date and swap rings and grow old together, when he's been buring it down for (god how long now?) three? four? months now, he just kind of snapped and finally like, "YEAH YOU KNOW WHAT FUCK IT, I WANT TO HARD CORE LOVE THE SHIT OUT OF THAT FRECKLED BASTARD AND MARRY HIS STUPID ASS AND IT SUCKS ARMIN SO FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE TO WALLOW IN MY ISOLATED MISERY IN PEACE." (And of course Armin is like "NU-UH BITCH YOU BETTER OWN UP TO YO FEELINS WE AIN'T GOT ALL DAY FOR THIS SHIT YO") So if it wasn't clear before, I hope this description helps. 
> 
> (I would now like to formally suggest that all dialogue in Crutches be written in all caps and sound like the above. Ahem. Am I fired from writing this fic yet?)
> 
> I've noticed something with this story: the minor characters all seem to be really strong, well rounded grown-ups who seem to be good at knowing the right thing to say, whereas the protagonists are whiny, wishy-washy piss babies seriously lacking in the self-confidence department. Armin and Levi both seem to serve as love councilors for Jean and Marco and Erwin and Leo seem really apt to drop wisdom-bombs. And then there's Jean who is the ultimate gamophobe and Marco who is like "how does one gay?" And I am literal trash and should be stopped. ;n;


	9. Tipsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco gets more than he bargained for  
> (Marco's point of view)

“I told Connie 'no,' but he insisted,” is the first thing Jean tells me as he comes through the door, a six packs of some fruity colored beverages in either hand. Left hand holds a pale shade of pink, right has a soft orange. 

_Soft drinks?_ I ponder at first. 

“And then I got to thinking, well, if we have them anyway, might as well drink them.” He pushes the two cases into my hands before moving to pull off his loafers, hopping slightly on each foot as he does. “So after Leo goes to bed, you're staying up with me, and we're going to finish all this girly ass liquor and fold laundry because we're a pair of losers with no lives.”

I can't think of anything intelligent to say, letting Jean brush past me as I hold up a six pack to read the label. Some sort of hard lemonade. I don't think it quite hits me until I read that, exactly what Jean is saying. “Uh, Jean, I don't really drink alcohol. I don't like the taste.”

“Oh, c'mon!” Jean whines from his position in the middle of the rug. 

Somehow in the time it had taken me to read the label of the drinks, Jean had plopped himself down and wrestled Leo into his lap, squeezing him and tousling his hair into chaos. Leo takes it in stride at least, only whining slightly before giving in to the giggles.

“Those things, it's like drinking juice! You can't taste any alcohol at all!” He throws Leo over his shoulder, who squeals with delight, before pushing to his feet. “Besides, it's a Friday night and I need to get my twenty-two year old ass drunk.”

I scowl. When he puts it like that, how can I not agree? There's a sharp pain in my chest when he reminds me that he's still just a kid. And even me, I'm not some old fart myself. We're two guys in our early twenties who stay home every night and play board games with a five year old. We should act young once in a while. Especially Jean. Besides, there is nothing wrong with a few drinks at home on a Friday.

At least that's what I tell myself.

But I hadn't anticipated what a lightweight Jean is. Two bottles in, he's already buzzed. By the time we finish the first six-pack, he has pretty much given up on the laundry and resorts to slumping himself over what I've already folded on the coffee table where we have situated ourselves, backs against the couch. And though I'm drinking at a slower pace, I can't help but think that even if I was keeping up with him, I wouldn't be able to so much as talk myself into the level of drunk he is. He chatters along aimlessly as I attempt to finish the task at hand, and though he makes it difficult, I can't say it's not amusing.

“So then Connie tells me _he_ wants a prosthetic leg!” Jean groans, throwing his arms in the air abruptly, making me jump. “Oh, my bad,” he interrupts himself briefly, resting a hand on my shoulder just for a moment before continuing his story. “And I'm like 'Are you stupid?' But of course he is, because he's Connie-fucking-Springer. Like, you do realize you'd need to cut your fucking leg off, right? Dumbass...” Jean shakes his head, laughing suddenly. “I mean, I love the guy, he's like a brother to me, but god... What a fucking airhead!” 

I can't help but feel my mood brighten at the titter of his laughter, and when he flops himself over the clean laundry again, I only smile, pleased that he's in such high spirits tonight.

But as his giggles curb, I can sense a shift in the mood, something gradual but also swift, and when he looks up at me with his head rested on a soft pillow of T-shirts, I don't miss the warmth blossomed on his cheeks in something more than a drunken flush. His eyes, droopy and fuzzy, don't seem to swim with lack of focus, but more in an inability to meet my eyes for too long. 

“I... um, I actually want to apologize,” he tells me. “I... I wasn't completely honest with you when I introduced you to my family.”

Apologize? That's new. This isn't Jean. Is it the alcohol talking? I purse my lips, hands slowing, then stopping mid-fold. “Jean?”

“I told you Armin and I were close, but I didn't tell you the whole story,” he mumbles, fiddling with an already folded pair of shorts, mangling them and upon becoming frustrated with that fact, crumples them into a ball and tossing them aside. “I want to be honest with you.”

Honest... Is this the part where he tells me about his relationship with Armin? I can only stare at him, wait for him to continue, being unsure of what the correct way to proceed. He blushes, playing with a frayed thread of his cargo shorts.

“I, um, want to tell you everything. The whole story. Um, if that's okay,” Jean murmurs. I don't know how to feel about this side of Jean. It's different, alarming almost, in a small, skittish animal sort of way. I don't think I like it... I adore his shameless confidence, his quick-witted snark.

“That's okay,” I tell him. “As long as you're okay, talking about this.” Jean nods, wringing his hands now. I hear the shaky breath he lets out. “We don't have to if we don't want to, Jean. You're a little drunk...”

He rolls his eyes then. “It's just some liquid courage,” he snorts, reaching for his bottle then to take another swig of the pink liquor. “I'm not even drunk.” But it's obvious that he's telling himself and not me. At least some of his sass has returned, though it seems fleeting.

I try not to smile but it's hard. Smiling is my immediate fall-back when I'm backed into a corner and don't know how to say “no,” but here, right now, it seems wrong. So I try nodding instead, moving to take a drink, too. I put my focus on not tasting too much of the drink, which doesn't quite resemble juice as much as Jean had made it seem. 

“Did you get drunk just to tell me all this?” I murmur. I cringe at how harsh that sounds, regretting it instantly.

“What?” Jean asks, lifting his brows. Did he not hear me or is he playing dumb? Perhaps he's trying to get me to repeat myself so he can get offended? I don't know...

“Nothing,” I chirp, taking another quick sip.

Jean waves his hand dismissively before leaning back against the couch once more, head lolling back against the seat cushion with his arms propped up by his knees. 

“Anyway, I, um... Armin and I... we used to... be a... a thing, I guess? Like, not a couple but... well, more than friends-with-benefits, but, um, kinda that. It was just in middle school and the beginning of high school but...” His head flops over sloppily so he faces me, and god, it's almost like he's pouting at me. “Does that weird you out? You think it's gross, right?”

I rub my nose. I can't tell him Armin already told me all of this. I can't tell him that no, just the opposite, that I'm jealous of Armin because I'm actually the same as the small blond, in that sense. But it's not that easy. I don't know how to just let it all go like Jean. It's been bottled up inside me for twenty-five years and I just don't know how to just say it, not yet at least, even with him. I can only clear my throat and murmur, “No, it doesn't weird me out.”

Jean goes quiet as he fiddles with his drink, only taking small glances over at me, before piping up again. “Really? You don't think it's weird living with a guy who likes other guys?”

Instead of answering, I ask, “But you don't just like guys, right?” Leo's mother is heavy on my mind but I don't bring her up. Not yet. I'll let him, if he wants to. But I remember Armin's words. He wants to tell me himself, when he's ready. I can't bring myself to question him about her until he brings it up himself.

Jean kind of giggles. “Yeah, I guess that makes me, what? Bi, or something? Armin tells me about stuff like that, the names they have for it. Pansexual, polysexual, this-sexual, or that-sexual. But I don't know, I never really think about it like that. I just know that it doesn't really matter to me either way, what parts they have or what pronouns they go by, men, women, hell even something else, whatever that is, it doesn't matter...”

“How did you know you were...” I fuss over terminology briefly but give up when the pause becomes uncomfortable. “Bisexual?” Pansexual? Polysexual? What does that even mean? I don't know... I was a military brat who moved a lot and kept to myself. Stuff like that, it was hardly even in my field of vision, let alone something I actively tried to learn about.

He swirls his bottle in small circles loosely with his wrist, letting what's left slosh around haphazardly. “Mh, I don't know... I guess always, in a way... I could always sort of feel that I was different than other kids, that I stared at guys a little too long...” 

My heart thunders in my chest. I want to exclaim 'me, too!' I want to tell him everything in that moment, but I chew my lip, letting him finish. It's better if I wait, I tell myself. Let him get everything off his chest and then open up. 

“I mean, even though I liked girls, too. But... It was still pretty obvious that other guys didn't feel the same as me. But, I guess I really, really knew in middle school.”

Jean sighs, resting his arms against the couch, the left, closest to me reaching all the way to my shoulder, while the right bent at the elbow, cut off by the arm of the couch. “Armin and I... we'd been friends for a while. Eren and I would butt heads – we still do but... –, but Armin and I had always been at least civil with each other as kids, and when we were put in a couple honors classes together without Eren there to get me riled up, we got close. Started studying together, and meeting up after school to read in his room or play video games.

“He told me he was gay before he even told Eren.” I don't miss the fond smile playing across Jean's lips, eyes distant with something like nostalgia. He cackles suddenly, eyes dancing as he looks over to me to exclaim, “At first, I didn't handle it well. Fuck, even Eren handled it better when Armin finally told him, but that was months later! I think he was scared to tell anybody else after how I reacted, but turns out Eren is surprisingly open-minded in that sense. Or maybe it's just because it was Armin... I'unno.”

Shaking his head, Jean shifts his position yet again, this time slumping over his knees once more. He's surprisingly somber now. I begin to wonder if he has been pretending to be more drunk than he really is to give himself courage. “But anyway, so he tells me he thinks he's gay. I kinda freak at first, but... I think that's mostly because I thought that's what I was supposed to do, ya'know? I mean, I'd thought he was cute for god knows how long, and he wasn't the first guy I'd had a crush on, but I was in total denial, thinking it was just some weird phase or something and I'd grow out of it after I finished puberty.

“But afterward, I don't really remember how it happened, but Armin and I started, um, started...” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, and the blush that stains his ears and cheeks is more than apparent. “We kinda just skipped hand holding and kissing... The normal stuff that most middle schoolers would do, we never did that. We were still just friends out in public, but in his room, after school, we'd give each other hand jobs in his bed or blow each other if his grandpa wasn't home. By the summer before our freshman year, he was letting me finger him while he'd jerk us both off, and then we were kissing, making out all the time.

“We spent more and more time together. I spent the night at his house more than I stayed at my own. His grandpa just kinda accepted me being there the way you would a stray cat.” Jean kind of snorts at that, but then he scowls.

“My dad knocked up another woman. My dad was never really around much to begin with, but my parents were still married, he was still my dad. It was such a shitty thing to do. So I stayed with Armin so I didn't have to deal with my mom's depression or the divorce or, god, him bringing that bitch to our house while he was moving his stuff out. Armin put up with me for all of that, he loved me when I couldn't bear to be loved by anybody because everybody who told me they loved me had lied... He was my rock...” Jean trails off, finishing the last of his drink and setting the empty bottle with all the rest on the other side of the coffee table.

“Even when I made the mistake of bringing him home with me after school to get some clean clothes. When my dad walked in on us, he still stood by me, held me after my dad basically disowned me, let me move in with him full time for the final months of the divorce because even my mom didn't know how to handle my sexuality at that point. I think she was just too stressed to deal with one more thing, though. If it had been any other time, she probably would have handled it better. I think Armin knew that too... That's why he just accepted it.”

“I was a pretty shitty son back then,” he grumbles. “I know that now. I left Ma all alone while she was dealing with so much bullshit from my dad. She didn't deserve that. But I just couldn't handle their dumbfuckery then, least of all my dad's. I needed to be as far away from him as possible. I was fourteen and I was learning all these new things about myself. Struggling with my sexuality and being in love for the first time. I don't know what I would have done if Armin hadn't just accepted me, if his grandpa hadn't taken me under his roof.”

When Jean pauses to let out a shaky breath, I reach for his fingers across the floor. “I'm sorry,” I tell him, helpless, unable to offer anything else. He doesn't respond, but let's our fingers tangle, scowling out across the living room.

“It's not that big of a deal,” he grumbles. “It's not the worst I've been through by a long shot. I just wish I could make it up to him, somehow. I relied on him for so long, and I don't know how to make it up to him.”

“Armin doesn't really seem like the type to expect anything in return for that,” I offer, feeling the corners of my mouth pricking up despite myself.

Jean scoffs. “Still,” he grumbles, but he never really finishes the thought. Instead, he seems to veer off in another direction, eyes raising to the ceiling now. “I hope he can find some one who can love him in the way I never could. I was never good enough for him; he deserves a guy who will worship him, think his shit smells like roses, all of that. He deserves that more than anybody I think.”

I pull my fingers away from his, and it brings his attention back down to me. I can't meet his eyes. My mouth is dry but I can't help myself from asking the obvious, “Do you still have feelings for him?”

Jean is quiet for a moment. Then, gently, “I'll always love him, but it's not like that for us.” He turns, so he faces me, leaning on the couch still with his knees drawn in a sort of fetal position. His pose is fragile and unlike him. Meek and submissive. “It's hard to put a name to our relationship. What it was and even what it is now. But we aren't in love with each other. The only one I've felt that way about since Leo was born is...”

He trails off, looking away, toward the coffee table. “We should put the laundry away,” he tells me abruptly, pushing to his knees. “We can save the rest for tomorrow.” He cusses under his breath, brows furrowed, mouth a hard line. I feel like I'm missing something important, and it confuses me. _The only one..?_

“Jean?”

“C'mon, get up,” Jean commands, tugging at my wrist.

But what about the rest? He told me he'd tell me the whole story. I'm not ready for him to stop. I've barely learned anything new! I scowl, not wanting to move, but the way he pulls me, I can only obey. I try to pull the prosthetic up so I can at least kneel on my good leg with the prosthetic to keep me balance but in my haste to keep up with Jean, I don't quiet set it right.

“Jean!” I yelp, realizing it hadn't locked well enough to keep the right angle while I try to push myself up. And for whatever reason, Jean chooses that moment to give a second impatient tug, completely throwing my balance off.

The leg sweeps out from under me and I careen into Jean. We tumble, luckily not being far enough off the hard wood floor to have the wind knocked out of us or seriously injure anything. Vaguely I hear Titan yelp behind me, but mostly I shocked to open my eyes and find what position we'd landed in.

With Jean flat on his back, I manage to keep from crushing him with my hands on either side of his shoulders, my face inches from his. His cheeks are flushed and I can't imagine mine are much different considering in our collapse, I'd invaded his lean thighs, albeit at an odd angle that doesn't meet us against each other quiet right. This is bad. Very, very bad. My face is on fire and I'm pretty sure any moment I'll melt right through him, soaking into the floor beneath us.

“I, um,” I stutter, trying to apologize, but Jean silences me with his look, brows turned up, lips parted, waiting, expectant. I feel his hands on my chest, though I don't dare look away from his sharp eyes. And I can feel it, the urge to close what's left of the space between us. And I know he feels it to, just by the lazy look in his eyes.

“You really are drunk, aren't you?” I squeak, moving to take his hands off of me. He shakes his head, though, pulling me down by my jaw now. “J-jean...”

And I almost let him do it.

I almost just give in, because god, I want to. I've wanted to for months. But it's almost too perfect. And he's too out of himself for it to be fair. It's like he isn't Jean right now, a sweeter, softer version of himself that isn't the man I've fallen in love with.

I gently remove his hands from me, moving to sit up. “You're drunk, Jean.” And maybe I don't really believe that, not entirely, but it's as good an excuse as any to save myself from this situation.

Jean scowls, latching onto my shirt. “The fuck I am,” he growls abruptly, tugging me back down. I hadn't expected that. It's more like him, and I don't know what to believe at this point. The sweet sensitive sides he's showing tonight don't even seem real, but they mix and intermingle with his more brash, ill-mannered side seamlessly, and I don't know what to think anymore.

“I wouldn't be this way with just anybody,” he growls. “Don't push me away.” It turns into a whine at the end, as if he's begging me. And I realize that, yeah, this really is the same person. Maybe he's not entirely sober, but he isn't a completely different person because of it.

So this time, I give in. 

I let him pull me down.

And our lips meet, soft and slow, a gentle mingling of flesh on flesh, a meek taste of each other's mouths, everything gentle and coy at first. Then all at once, he's throwing his arms around my shoulders, clutching at my back roughly with the blunt tips of his fingers while he nipped and lapped at my jaw and throat. Using my elbows to prop myself, I maneuver to fit between his legs better, rutting against him while his heels lock behind my back.

“We should stop,” I tell him, though neither of us listen. 

He keeps trading between suckling at my neck and gifting me with sloppy, invasive kisses, while I rock into him, grinding our hips and trying to figure out a comfortable position to put my prosthetic in, but never really finding one. 

“This is so unfair,” I hear myself groan, though it doesn't sound like my voice, too raw and breathy to be me.

“Uhn, M-marco,” is Jean's only response, invading my shirt, pulling it up off my hips, far enough that he can trail his fingers up my spine, making me shiver. _This is bad..._

* * *

My arm is completely numb, to the point I'm not even sure if it's moving when I try to flex my fingers. I can't even get a visual hint, given the dead weight on my bicep, a mess of two-toned hair cutting off circulation to my arm. I've been laying here, watching the steady rise and fall of his bare shoulders for a while now, and I don't think I could ever tire of it, but for my arm being in agony at this point.

It's probably a little before 1100 hours before Jean finally shows any signs of life. He rolls over, sending a shock of pins and needles through my arm and it progresses down my spine, making me shiver, but I stomach the pain. Beneath heavy lids, he looks over at me.

And I know he's still half asleep by the way he sighs deeply, and the first slurred words out of his mouth are, “Why are you in my bed? Did we fuck?”

I shake my head, reaching up to brush a lock of his hair from his eyes. “You asked me to stay here last night,” I tell him, wondering if he'll judge me for fulfilling his tipsy requests after I'd finally gotten him to bed. Letting him wrestle me out of my shirt, take off my prosthetic for me, sidle up to me so I spooned him.

Jean blinks. Then, after a haphazard glance around, he inquires, “Are we naked? Are you sure we didn't fuck?”

“No!” I yelp, trying to keep quiet. 

He's always like this when he first wakes up, almost drunk on sleep and not really having much sense. But at least he's cognizant enough to identify where we are, even if he can't realize that no, beneath the sheets, he's still in his boxer briefs at least and I'm wearing my sweats, even if he insisted on pulling me out of my shirt and tossing it into some corner of his room.

I think he'll fall back asleep then, but he rolls onto his back, stretching while still horizontal. I gently try to worm my arm out from under him, setting to coaxing it back to life, groaning softly. He glances over me and kind of chuckles. I'm still wondering if he's half asleep until abruptly he falls limp beside me. 

“What happened last night?” he asks in a panic.

I go still, unsure how to respond. He's truly awake now. Not his dizzy half-consciousness, I realize with a growing sense of dread.

“Oh my god, did I kiss you?” Jean groans suddenly, bringing his arms up to rub his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I fucking kissed you, didn't I? Ugh, I'm so hung over.”

He pushes himself up and I follow, confused. “I-it's okay,” I try to tell him, watching stupidly as he stumbles to his feet, looking around the room and grabbing random articles of clothing, sniffing them briefly before settling on a T-shirt and pulling it over his head. I recognize it as mine from last night but don't say anything, letting him continue on his way toward the bathroom.

“It's not,” Jean argues. “That wasn't cool. I – _nh._ ” He lets out a small noise, like he doesn't want to finish that sentence. Or maybe doesn't know how. 

I hear water running in the bathroom but can't tell what he's doing with his back turned to me. Washing his face? Or brushing his teeth? I don't know.

I don't know what he's thinking. Last night... Even if it was just kissing... He was so relaxed. He was into me. Was it just the alcohol acting or..? Does he regret it? I don't want that. I don't want him to regret me. 

Desperate, I lean forward, grasping at the sheets. “No, Jean, it's really okay!” But I can't stand and go to him. I don't know where I left my fake.

Jean turns back to look at me. I can read the torn look in his eyes. What is going through his mind? What does he see, looking at me? I don't understand. I don't know what to do. What do I say so he understands that I don't regret it? That I don't want him to either? Even if it was just a kiss, if it was just Jean's drunken game, it meant so much to me, that he would pull me closer... I don't want to let that feeling go now that I've had it.

“Marco...” He stands in the threshold between the bathroom and bedroom, lingers there, as if he's afraid to enter the room again. I can see the questions in his eyes. I see my insecurities, my fear, my nervous energy all reflected on his face. His angular features have softened, his usually harsh eyes look wet. He closes them briefly, as if he wants to hide from my gaze, knowing I'm looking at every inch of him. “You don't mean that.”

“I do,” I chirp immediately, scrambling forward, swinging my good leg over the foot of the bed so I can stand and go to him. Until I remember. I grip my sweats, hands turning to fists on my thighs, pissed at myself for not being able to just go to him. “I...”

Jean crosses his arms, looking toward the window. His posture shows me how uncomfortable he is – shoulders caving in, chin dipped toward his chest –, and it's a relief, knowing he's as frightened as I am, but at the same time, I want to comfort him. I want to close the gap between us, engulf him, swallow him, nestle him in my chest, the way a man should be able to in this situation. But I can't. I can only sit on this fucking bed and try to hold down the lemon clogging my throat.

“It's okay, Jean,” I manage to choke out.

He doesn't respond.

The silence hangs.

I don't know what to do.

Breath short, I know I'm panicking, I'm fucking this up, and I don't know what to say to fix it. 

Slowly, he lifts his head, meets his eyes with mine, and chews his lip briefly before: “Do you even want me?”

I blink, confused. After everything, he's asking that? Then it dawns on me, the reminder that yes, yes, he's just as scared as I am. Cautious, I test the waters. Carefully, I murmur, “Are you asking me to show you that I want you?”

And when Jean's cheeks grow pink at my words, when he looks down and bites his lip again, I feel my nerves melt away. I'm crazy with fear, but I know what to do. I need to take the lead this time. I know how to do this. Fuck, I've read enough shitty dollar store romance novels to figure this out by now. I may not be able to do it the way all those guys do, I can't sweep him up into my arms and kiss him in the rain and tell him I wrote him every day for a year or whatever cheesy bullshit, but I can do this.

And though I'm scared, he's scared, too. I need to be the one to hold him up this time.

I offer him my hand. “Come here,” I command gently.

Fear lingers in his eyes, but I recognize the instant relief. He pads across the hard wood floor to me, standing awkwardly before me, crumpling the hem of my shirt hanging from his boney shoulders loosely.

I loop a hand behind his thigh, the other coming to the small of his back, and pull him closer, closer still, until he has to bring his knee up onto the bed beside me. “M-marco!” he whimpers, but I keep going, pulling his other leg up to my other side so he straddles me. To keep his balance, he brings his hands to my neck, drawing his thumbs along my Adam's apple, fingers caressing my jawline.

“You're pulse is racing,” Jean tells me with breathless chuckle that lacks any humor. 

I can only nod, having not even realized it this time, too drawn to his amber eyes to possibly pay any attention to myself. I settle both hands now on the small of his back, pulling him closer, too caught up in him to feel anxious. My lips find his neck, traveling down to the small exposed bit of his collarbone not covered by my shirt. 

“Mine, too,” he added, breath hitching as my teeth scrape on his flesh.

I crush him against me, so his belly meets my sternum. And though he's not that much smaller than me, still tall enough that his face hovers well over mine so I have to crane my neck back and sit up perfectly straight, he's still small in my arms, I guess from having lived a simple suburban life that is so different from everything I've done these past half dozen years.

“Is your leg okay?” he asks, fussing over my sideburns, petting at my stubble.

I recognize that he's trying his best not to put any unnecessary pressure on it, but honestly, my leg is the last thing on my mind. I bring my hands up to his biceps, grounding him, pulling him down onto me.

“I'm fine,” I manage to grumble before crushing my lips on his. He gasps wildly, fingers tangling in my hair in an instant. I find myself squeezing his arms still, keeping him close. We crash into each other crooked and hasty, and our teeth scrape. 

Somehow, I choke out a hasty, “Sorry,” before pulling back to try again, meeting him flush this time, drawing the flat of my tongue across his that had snuck out to meet me.

He's heavy, but it's nice. The stimulation of his weight on my lap and his fingers yanking at my hair and his hot breath invading my throat keeps me here, in the present. I couldn't possibly go anywhere else with his presence invading every inch of me. He whines my name and I'm so, so incredibly _here_ it's startling. I can't remember a time when my entire mind has been so focused on what's in front of me. I wouldn't even know who I am, if not for him reminding me with every few kisses, rasping anxiously, “Marco... Mhn, Marco!”

It takes more strength than it should to pull him away, just a few inches, by his arms, though he still tries to lean forward to taste my lips. Probably because I don't really want it to end. His lips are pink and wet and I imagine I'm in a similar state, face flushed and eyes dizzy. 

“Do you understand?” I hum, drawing my fingers down his sides again, resting on his hips. “Do you...?”

“You're a shitty kisser,” he laughs, the despair apparent on his face. And we both know that's not what he meant to say but it's enough for now.

I reach up to rub the flush off his cheeks, cupping my hands over his jaw and ears. “I know,” I hear myself say, though it doesn't feel real. I'm not this brazen. Where is this coming from? “I'm sorry.” I venture onto a ledge, hope making me more courageous than normal. I'll risk being shot down for the chance at more of him, even if I probably never would have before. “M-maybe you should teach me...”

Jean laughs, a distraught but gleeful bark. “If you insist,” he snorts, fingers finding my stubble again, using the lightest of touches to maneuver my face to the right angle, caressing my lips open for him again. He leans back in but doesn't quite close the space between our mouths, eyes still troubled and moist. “I... Marco, I –”

“I know,” I tell him, clutching him closer still. I can't get enough of him. We're already flush but I keep squeezing, constricting his torso as if he would somehow melt into my chest. “I know, Jean. Just... just, let me. Let me hold you.” Instead of kissing him again, I rest my forehead in the crook of his neck, crushing him against me again. His chin buries itself in my hair as he laces his fingers behind my neck, and we just sit there, soaking up each other's warmth in a small piece of stillness. “We're okay,” I remind him. “Let me be here for you.”

We're abruptly brought to the present by a soft yip from Titan, only moments before Jean's bedroom door creaks open.

“Daddy?”

Jean turns in my lap, glancing over his shoulder in a daze at the boy standing in the hallway. His hair is a mess, his clothes disheveled, but he's Leo, small and doe-eyed as ever. But upon recognition, he jumps to his feet, leaving me along on the bed to rush at Leo, instantly sweeping him into his arms. “What are you doing up, punk?”

“What're you and Marco doing?” Leo asks by way of answer, craning his neck over Jean's shoulder to look at me.

Jean blanks, turning to me in a panic. What were we doing? How do you explain that to a five year old? “M-marco,” Jean croaks, and we exchanged wide-eyed stares.

I find myself clearing my throat. I begin, “We were, um –“

But Jean shakes his head abruptly, interrupting me with, “Are you hungry, Leo? How about pancakes?”

Leo's sleepy eyes brighten, and Jean whisks him out of the room, leaving me alone with Titan. I let out a small sigh. I'm not sure if I'm relieved that Jean managed to dodge such a big conversation with Leo or disappointed that he didn't want to just be honest with him. Maybe it's my confusion as to how to progress with this new turn of events. I rub my forehead, flopping back on the bed so I can expand my arms across the length of the bed, too emotionally exhausted to try and locate my fake.

At my knee, Titan whines, resting his head on the bed beside me. 

“For once,” I tell him, “It's not flashbacks or night terrors.” I maneuver my head so I can see him in the bottom of my vision. His brows perk up in his doggy version of concern, big blue eyes watching me carefully. 

“It's all his fault,” I tell him. “Blame that guy, Ti. He's the reason I'm like this.”

I reach down to scratch Titan's chin, and he opens his mouth to pant at me, seemingly satisfied with my answer to his unvoiced question. 

“You're such a good dog,” I tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um... woops my hand slipped. I'm not sure this was supposed to happen this soon. originally jean was really going to do the "whole story" and then I got to writing and... lol. Oh well. 
> 
> Thank you so much everybody for all the kudos and comments and everything it all really means a lot. 
> 
> I'd also like to point of some amazing fanart people have done for Crutches because WOW SO NICE. [here](http://hanatsuki89.tumblr.com/post/91145586928/some-doodles-for-the-fic-crutches-by-addesin) and [here](http://amessyblog.tumblr.com/post/91828634460/scribbles-of-a-scene-for-a-fic-i-am-currently) THANK YOU SO MUCH AGAIN FOR ARTING FOR MY FIC THAT IS SO KIND OF YOU HOLY POOP ;A; YOU ALL SHOULD SHOWER THESE KIND SOULS WITH ALL THE LOVES~
> 
> Also: there was some stuff that was supposed to be italicized somewhere in this chapter but it's late and I'm tired so I'll do it after some sleepies... Goodnight!


	10. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean needs all the help he can get...  
> (Jean's point of view)

Marco strides toward the car eagerly with Titan at his heels, unphased by the knoll of grass beneath his feet, which maybe wouldn't mean a lot to anybody else, but given that that he's moved on to shorts, leaving his metal leg constantly exposed, it wrecks my chest a little to watch him from my place in the driver's seat. His gait is uneven and he spends a little too much time making sure his artificial knee locks into place to keep the limb underneath him, but his long legs carry him quickly to the passenger side door, and he leans against the frame of the window to smile sheepishly across to me. 

“You look good,” I say, without thinking. “Your walking, I mean,” I manage to recover before we can blush and sputter at each other. 

Marco chuckles a quick, “Thanks,” before rubbing his nose. He doesn't move to get in the car, though, rather hanging off the door, arms folded over the window. “Um, my session is over, but Levi and Erwin invited us to stay for dinner. Do you want to..? I, um, I thought it would be nice. The five of us.” 

I blink, glancing over my shoulder the sleepy Leo in the back seat. I wonder briefly if he needs a nap or if he's just bored, but the hopeful look in Marco's eyes keeps me from denying him. Besides, I am hungry, but I don't really feel like cooking tonight. “Sure,” I sigh, killing the engine and unbuckling my seat belt. 

“I-I'll get Leo!” Marco chirps, circling around the car. 

I nod, exiting the car before I loiter behind Marco as he helps Leo out of the car and hitches him on his hip. He holds him like it's nothing, but walks slower now that he has the extra weight, like he always does when he carries my son, taking even more care with his leg. Leo casually spider-monkeys himself around Marco, legs and arms wrapped tight around his waist and neck, resting his head on Marco's broad shoulder without a word. They had a lazy day together today while I was at work and I'm sure the lack of an agenda has him lethargic. 

We take our time walking back up the long asphalt driveway that leads to the small brick cottage Marco's therapist lives in. We discovered it was easier to drive the ten minutes East rather than a twenty-five minute drive across town, especially considering Marco's appointments are usually the last for Levi's day and it saves him the trouble of bringing Titan into the veteran's shelter, where apparently he's not supposed to be anyway. But this is the first time I've been invited into the tiny little abode, and really the first time I've met Levi since our brief introduction when Marco first moved in. 

Marco enters the arched front door without preamble, leading the way into the den off to the right of the foyer, where hard wood meets carpet and a large blond man sits with one arm resting across the back of a leather Chesterfield sofa, one leg crossed over the other. It doesn't take me long to notice the neat fold of his white button-up's sleeve, making the fact that his right arm ends at the elbow effectively apparent. I tell myself I should be used to seeing amputated limbs by now, but it throws me off none the less. 

Still, the man smiles pleasantly as Marco meanders closer, lowering Leo onto the couch before straightening out to make introductions. “Jean, this is my commanding officer, Erwin Smith.”

I don't catch the full extent of how large the man is until he pushes to his feet creakily, holding out his left hand to me with an apologetic smile. His wide chest and broad shoulders even make Marco seem meek in comparison, especially in the way he carries himself, square jaw held high, back straight. Marco has always been a little stiff like this, but it's never been so obvious before. He's different from Marco in every way it seems, from his fair skin, clean-shaven and smooth, to his bright blue eyes and even his thick, well-shaped brows and that strong nose. So very different on the surface, but there are some glaring similarities. Calm, warm eyes made tired by the things they've seen, a gentle smile that's just a little tense. His hand is calloused and scarred, his grip firm, but not painfully so, almost identical to Marco's in that sense. 

Erwin lets out a boisterous, good-natured laugh. “Just Erwin, please. I swear I tell him every day I'm not his commander any more, but he never listens.” 

Marco laughs but doesn't bother to apologize for once, instead turning toward the threshold on the opposite end of the room behind the sofa where a small, dark-haired man stands with his arms crossed. “You remember meeting Levi, right, Jean?”

Recalling our first meeting, I regret not washing my hands or something before coming inside their house, but it's a little late now. Levi eyes me with heavy accusation, as if he can smell the stale sweat and sterile, medical stench still lingering on me, clean but not too clean, even from fifteen feet away. 

“Love, c'mere for a minute,” Erwin beckons, holding out his good arm to the much smaller man. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

I glance over at Marco, but he doesn't notice. Or maybe he's avoiding my eyes. He doesn't seem to find this an unnatural occurrence though and doesn't falter when Levi crosses the span of the room, burrowing himself into Erwin's side, one flat hand coming to rest across the larger's abdomen. 

“We don't often tell people about our relationship,” Erwin says slowly. “I think you can guess a few reasons why. But Marco has known for a while now, and because he trusts you, we thought we could as well.” I have a hard time swallowing for a minute, feeling as if I'm being addressed by my father. Or whatever a father figure is supposed to be like, I guess. “Did we make the right call, Jean?”

I blink, licking my lips briefly. “Yeah, sure, of course.” 

It's a strange sensation, being trusted with this sort of secret. Not quite as high tension as when Armin and I were kids, but just as important. It's the same, but different. And I do my best to handle it the way I should have that first time so many years ago. I've grown up a lot, and I want to do better now, for Erwin and Levi, but also for Armin and myself too. 

“I, um, it's not weird to me or anything,” I offer, scratching the back of my head. “I mean, you don't see it a lot down here, but haha, this is gonna sound bad, but one of my best friends is gay. And...” I trail off, glancing at Marco again. He rubs his nose nervously, cheeks pink, but still won't meet my eyes. “Ah, never mind, really, it's no big deal.” 

I try not to think about the new developments of our relationship in the past couple weeks. Try to bury down the first kiss, and the second after that. I attempt to block out every rushed make-out session we've shared when we can spare a moment away from Leo after that, but it turns more a flip book of scenes through my memory, making my throat dry. 

It's still hard for me to wrap my mind around the idea of Marco being gay, being interested in me, wanting to kiss me, wanting to touch me, but I can't deny the way I melt under the strong grip of his large hands on my arms and waist and ass when he pushes me against a wall, or I lock us in the linen closet, blindly grasping for whatever is in reach. At the same time, though, we never acknowledge those moments in the light of day, and I have to wonder if Marco ever wants to. He told me it was okay, that he wants me, that he doesn't regret it, but we still haven't progressed past that. And I don't have the will to force the issue. What would I even say?

“Anyway, supper will be done soon. Marco, come help,” Levi grouches, heading back toward the kitchen. 

“What about me?” Erwin seems to pout after the two dark haired men as they make their way through the threshold with the dog at their heels.

“You'll just get in the way,” comes the response from the other room. It's almost rude, but Erwin smiles in good nature, reaching over to squeeze his residuum. 

“Ah, let's sit, shall we,” Erwin says, welcoming me toward the couch. 

Leo has long nodded off against the arm rest, so I sit close to him, pulling him into my lap. He'll be up all night at this point, I muse, letting him adjust himself into a comfortable position against my chest, never really rousing but at least snuggling down onto me with a content sigh. I run a hand through his shaggy hair, letting it trail all the way down his back, then repeat the action. 

“Marco tells me your son's name is Leo?” Erwin asks politely from the other end of the sofa, taking up his position from before almost perfectly. 

“Yeah,” I say, resigning myself into the plush leather. It's hard to feel like my usual self with this dominating man in my presence. I feel oddly stiff and formal, even as we casually share a couch in his living room. “He tuckered himself out today, or I'd have him greet you properly.” 

“No, it's no problem at all,” Erwin hums, holding up a hand. “Marco tells me he's quite the charmer.” 

I smile. Does he talk about Leo often? Somehow, that makes me proud. “Yeah,” I laugh. “I guess you could say that. He could probably get away with murder if he had a malicious bone in his body, but he's a total sweetheart. If he didn't look like a spitting image of me, you'd think we weren't even related.” 

Erwin's teeth are impossibly white, just another reason he seems inhumanly perfect. “Oh, I wouldn't say that. According to Marco, you're awfully good at endearing yourself to others as well.” His eyes give nothing away, and yet, simultaneously, everything. I recognize Armin in their clear blue, calculating and strategic, and it makes it hard to meet them.

I purse my lips, biting back a sneer. “No, I'm nothing all that special, believe me. I'm not particularly nice at all. I'm selfish and greedy and I'm horrible at getting close to people. Marco, on the other hand...”

“Marco is actually quite terrible at getting close to people,” Erwin says gently. “When everyone is your friend, it soon seems like no one is. Marco has trouble opening up to people, and tends to keep them at a distance because he doesn't want to burden them...”

“Yeah, that' rings a bell,” I chuckle. “But –”

“Marco has very few people he feels truly comfortable around, even within his own family. But I'd say you're one of those he trusts enough to be honest with. He treasures you and Leo above all else.”

“Yeah...” I murmur. 

“Can I be frank with you, Jean?” 

That intense gaze turns icy, demanding my full attention, and I'm reminded again of Armin picking my brain and leaving me chaffed and raw. I just barely manage a nod, unable to deny him. 

“Marco is important to me. I trust him with my life, because he's saved it more than once. It's because of Marco Bodt I managed to come home with only this –” He holds his stump of an arm up for me to see before letting it fall back on the arm of the couch. “I'm protective of all my men, but Marco most of all, because I owe him a debt that can never be paid.

“So I'm going to ask you not to hurt him. He's incredibly naïve and sheltered for someone who has been through a war. He's fragile, and falling in love with you might be the most dangerous thing he's ever done. I'd lose my other arm before someone hurts him here in his own home. And I know you would never break him on purpose, but I'm asking you to be careful. You know as well as I do how hard he's falling for you, even if the two of you pretend not to.” 

“Commander Smith –”

“I told you,” he says gently, “Call me Erwin. Please.”

“E-Erwin,” I sigh, letting my head fall back on the seat behind me. “I think you think I'm a lot better of a person than I really am. I'm not a good guy. I've got my own issues that I still haven't sorted out, and I don't know how to be the guy that Marco deserves.”

“So you're not denying that there is an attraction between the two of you?” That same intense gaze. Just like talking to Armin. An older, more soldier-like version of him at least. It throws me off, but I think I'm starting to get used to it, at least a little bit. 

I purse my lips briefly before sighing. “N-no, I'm trying not to now. But it's hard to transition between not denying it and saying it aloud.”

“I think that's enough, for now,” Erwin says gently. “So long as you're not remaining stagnant, so long as you're trying to grow. You're doing better than me, when I was your age.” He chuckles darkly, eyes cast across his shoulder to stare into the kitchen. 

I blink, I guess honestly surprised that this strong, calm man had ever struggled with much of anything. I guess that's how he and Armin differ, then. 

“It was hard for me to accept what I felt for Levi for a long time. And I think for him too, he hated that part of himself that loved me. I hated it a little, too. It was only recently that we finally accepted each other. I'll regret that for the rest of our lives. Too quickly we were almost torn away from each other, and I'd give anything to take away those cursed memories and replace them with happy ones for him. It's enough to know that you won't follow in our footsteps though.” 

“You and Levi... because you're men or?” 

Erwin nods just barely, smiling without any humor, that bright frost leaving his eyes. 

I rub the back of my neck nervously, unsure how I might comfort him. “M-my dad pretty much disowned me when he caught me with a guy in high school,” I offer. “Guy, girl, it doesn't really matter to me, but just because he saw me kissing my best friend, we're not even on speaking terms any more. He sends me a check for a hundred dollars on my birthday, but I've spoken to his wife and their daughter more than him in the past seven years. He doesn't even acknowledge Leo.” The bitterness of that last sentence leaks through, though I try not to let it. My chest still tightens to think about it, how he won't even meet his grandson because of our disagreements. I clutch Leo a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in apology to the words he can't hear in his unconscious state. 

Erwin's smile expresses his appreciation of the sentiment, and we both forgive the fact that this small story is all I can give him. But he steers the conversation back toward me, “So if you accept that you are attracted to men, what is it that keeps you from Marco?” 

“Myself mostly,” I answer truthfully. 

I'm about to elaborate when a short silhouette appears in the florescent glow of the kitchen. “Supper is ready; go wash up,” he barks, glowering down at us, and there's a guilty bit of relief that flows through me to notice that Erwin gets the bulk of his aggravated glare. 

He brushes it off casually, though, pushing to his feet. “Til another time, then, Jean,” he hums, nodding slightly at me before heading into the kitchen. 

“Guest bathroom is in the foyer,” Levi grunts, nodding in that direction. “Wash up the munchkin, too.”

* * *

“Mother fucker!” I bellow as yet another Lego clogs up the vacuum, causing the machine to clatter and clank in frustration as it tries to swallow the unruly chunk of plastic. Shutting off the motor, I holler toward the stairs as I crouch down to dislodge the piece, “Leo, I've told you a million times to pick up your goddamn toys!” This is the third one. 

After seven minutes of half disassembling the stupid appliance to find where the piece had hidden itself and stuffing it in my pocket, I finally give up trying to go in blind and move the couch to get a better idea of how many he'd managed to lose down there. Go figure the rug beneath it is riddled with small yellow and red blocks, a stray sock, at least enough change to buy a soda and a candy bar, and even a small G.I. Joe with his pistol still safely held in his Kung-Fu grip. I try to remember the last time I vacuumed and ponder how so much shit could have managed to find its way down here before shaking my head and dumping the stash on the coffee table to deal with later. Who knew our living room was so deceptively dirty? 

Just as I'm restarting the vacuum, Leo trots down the stairs, sheepishly skittering to retrieve the small mound of plastic behind me. I pretend not to notice him for now, only pausing from my work to let him struggle with carrying all his crap back upstairs in silence before I let out a sigh and tell him over my shoulder, “And don't just dump them on the floor in your room; put them where they belong.” 

He doesn't respond, fleeing back up to his room. I let him go, just about to start up the vacuum again when an impossibly loud thunder resounds from the ceiling, the effects of which are enough to make the chandelier above my head rattle and Leo to stop in his tracks on the stairs. 

“What the fuck was that?” I asks, my heart leaping to my throat from the shock. I jump at the fright, but I'm too caught off guard to think of any real reason for such an abrupt explosion of noise on our lazy Saturday morning though. It doesn't even cross my mind to panic until I hear Titan's familiar barking sounding down the hall as he runs to the top of the stairs. Like lightning, he's gone again, but returns quickly, his barks reverberating off the walls as he goes. Even then it takes me a moment before the pieces click and I drop the handle of the vacuum, letting the standing portion clatter to the floor. 

“Oh my god!” 

I charge past Leo up the stairs, mere millimeters from blowing him over as I chase Titan through the house to Marco's room, one hand flying to my back pocket for my phone until I realize it's still charging in my room. _Shit._ I've never felt so slow in my life, precariously trying not to fall on my ass as my socked feet carry me across the hard wood floors. All I feel is my heart thundering in my throat, pulse coming heavily even in my fingertips as I skid to a halt just inside the door quick enough to see Marco just now achingly picking himself up off the floor. 

He seems more surprised than me to find himself down there, pushing to his elbows first as he hisses at the pain. He's laid across on his right side for the most part, and it looks like his shoulder and hip took the bulk of the impact, but the way he gingerly touches his hairline and right temple tells me he must have banged his head as well. 

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” I cry, dropping to my knees before him. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Confusion clouds his wide brown eyes as he looks up at me. “I was just standing up,” he says softly, voice troubled and dazed. “I... I was taking a nap and...” 

He pauses to nudge Titan away who worriedly hovers over him, sniffing at his hips and legs. “I'm okay, boy, relax.” But he's visibly shaken, hands unsteady, voice quivering. I'm sure he's in pain, but he seems more surprised than anything. 

Then, a realization hits him. He laughs, and I notice his freckled cheeks become tainted with a light flush. “I guess I forgot my leg. Haha.” Somehow, I don't believe that laugh. His eyes are much more telling than his mouth. Achingly slow, he sits himself up slowly, swinging his legs out in front of him. “I wasn't thinking about it at all... Knocked the wind right out of me.” He chuckles again, then cringes at the pain it causes his side. 

“Christ, Marco! How the fuck do you forget something like that?” I groan, shuffling closer on my knees to get a better look at the bruise blooming on his brow. He doesn't answer, smiling to hide his shame in that way he does with eyes cast down, so I continue. “You scared the shit out of me. Do you think you have a concussion?” 

“I-I'm okay, I think. It's just a few bumps and bruises. My shoulder mostly. There's still some shrapnel...” He wastes no time using his left arm to pull his shirt over his head, and it's obvious even to me that he's doing his best not to move it more than necessary. But even this has him in pain. Once he's wrestled himself out of his shirt, he sets to inspecting it with cautious pressure from his fingertips. 

I scold myself for looking at his smooth collarbones, at his bare chest – and the sparse collection of hair resting between his breasts, trailing down toward his sternum – and tense abdomen while he's in pain like this. I shake my head to clear the fog, pushing to my feet. “I'll go get you some ice,” I huff quickly, striding toward the door. 

Only then do I notice Leo, who half hides himself behind the door frame. “Is Marco okay?” he asks me, eyes wide with concern. 

I can only glance over my shoulder at Marco for confirmation. His flush progresses further across his face as he chirps, “I'm fine, really!” 

“You're not just saying that so we won't worry?” Leo pipes in, stealing the words from my mouth. In a way, I'm grateful, knowing that it would have sounded much more accusatory coming from my lips. 

Marco offers a timid smile. “I'm okay, I promise. I'd tell you if it was serious.” I stare at him, though, waiting. Finally, after working his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment he murmurs, “So-some ice would be good, though... Please.” 

I only huff in response, stalking down the hall with Leo at my heels. He latches onto the back of my shirt, but glances over his shoulder as we walk, his brows rippled with worry. 

He helps me carry one of the bags of ice back upstairs, little hands squeezing and kneading the chunks around in the Ziploc bag. Once we enter Marco's room again, we find he's managed to get himself back onto the bed somehow. He doesn't quite mask the pain on his face fast enough that I don't catch it, but Leo doesn't seem to notice it, scampering up to offer Marco the ice. 

“Here,” I murmur, seating myself on the edge beside Marco, resting one bag in my hand on his hip while I hand him the other. He moves to make room for me, so I have enough space to rest my left leg parallel with where his right would be, while the other hangs off the bed. 

“You promise you're okay?” I mumble as I help Leo onto the bed. He settles himself at the foot near Titan who has contented himself with laying over Marco's good leg as if to prevent a recurrence of the incident. His clear blue eyes flicker between us with as much worry as mine, maybe more, and if his ears can't seem to decide if they want to stand at attention – as best they can with how floppy they are – toward Marco or lay flat down. I'm sure the fall shook him up, too. 

As he sandwiches some of the ice between his ribs and arm and holds what's left against his shoulder, he nods, offering a half smile. “Hurt my pride more than anything,” he sighs. Then, he laughs softly, “I'm such an idiot.” 

“Stop that,” I tell him, gentler than I really meant to. When he doesn't say anything more, I murmur. “I was really scared, you know. What if it had been worse? What would I do if you had really hurt yourself?” 

“I didn't mean to worry you,” Marco grumbles. 

“Of course you didn't,” I snap. “You never do!” And I can't help but feel bitter. Because it's true. He tries to stay out everyone's way, rather than be a burden. It pisses me off. Still... I cluck my tongue. Resting my hand on his leg – or whatever's left of it –, I whisper, hopefully quiet enough that Leo doesn't hear while he immerses himself with rubbing Titan's back, “But I can't help it, regardless. I... You don't understand how protective I am of you. If I lose you, too... I-I need you to rely on me more.” 

“Jean,” Marco chides, resigning himself back on the headboard. I think he'll shut down completely, but by the grace of god, he rests his hand over mine on his knee, offering just a little more, “I don't want to have to rely on anybody. I may be a cripple, but I'm still an adult.”

“Even adults rely on other people, Marco.” I do my best to keep from tightening my grip, instead using my index to reach up and rub the space between his finger and thumb. “I don't like it either. There's nothing I hate more in the world, but...” 

I sigh, chewing on my thumb nail half-heartedly, only half realizing what an opportune time this would be, but going with it none the less. My mouth seems to move on it's own, mumbling around my nail as I try to summon the courage. What a stupid moment to pick this is. “I've been thinking actually... That, um... That maybe we could... be that? For each other, I mean? Like... Like you said that one time? Do you remember? I could be a crutch for you... And you'd be a crutch for me, too. And we'd hold each other up.” 

Marco looks over at me, and I can't meet his gaze, keeping my eyes carefully trained on our hands resting over his stump, waiting for him to process my words. It takes a moment of silence between us, but eventually, he squeezes my hand lightly. 

“We don't do the work for each other,” he amends slowly. “We just keep each other from falling down.” 

I nod, chewing my lip, finally pulling my eyes up to his. 

“C-can I kiss you?” he rasps. “Jean.” 

“O-of course, dumbass,” I croak in response. 

And for a moment, I forget everything, forget Leo, forget Titan, forget where we are or what we're talking about, I just see him, his warm and wet eyes like melting chocolate framed by long dark lashes, and it feels like being submerged in the bathtub. It only lasts a heartbeat before I remember, but by then, Marco has closed the space between us, his warm breath on my upper lip, and I don't want him to stop. 

He chastely rests his lips on mine, and it takes all my self-control not to deepen it. In away, this sort of kiss is so like him, safe and secure, and exactly why I've come to care for him so deeply. This innocence about him is endearing in a way. Like Erwin said... He's fragile.

I don't blush until he pulls away. I can feel Leo's eyes, wide and innocent, but I don't dare look, deciding to make this my first moment where I use Marco as my crutch. While he turns to face Leo, I rest my forehead on his jaw, tense but waiting. 

“Um,” is the first thing Marco says and I almost want to laugh. “Um, Leo...” 

“You and Daddy really like each other, huh?” When neither of us answer right away, Leo decides to clarify, “Because Daddy never does that with anybody. And Granna says Papa and her do it on the mouth because they like each other a whole lot.” 

Marco seems to relax a little bit, so I pull away slightly to see what he says next. “I, um, yeah, I really like Daddy a whole lot,” he chuckles, looking at me fondly. And it makes me sneer, because he called me 'Daddy.' 

“I guess you're not so bad yourself,” I snort, but the sarcasm isn't quiet as biting when I reach up to graze my fingers along his jaw. 

“Is that okay with you, Leo?” Marco asks, just barely pulling his eyes off me. “If Daddy and I like each other that way?” 

And I hadn't realized exactly the extent of how worried I'd been until the relief washes over me when he smiles. “Yeah!” he chimes. 

“You don't think it's weird or icky?” I ask him, just to be sure. I'm uncertain with how to proceed with introducing Leo to this new development (which admittedly isn't all that new), having never done this before. I can't help but think there should be some sort of struggle, given that we're both men, but Leo seems to take it in stride. 

“Well, I used to think it was icky when Granna and Papa would do it,” Leo ponders, fiddling with Titan, who seems indifferent to everything at this point, probably thinking he can relax while Marco is smiling this big. “But then they told me why so now, I don't think so any more. I'm happy you and Marco can like each other that much too because Granna and Papa have been together for _ever_ so that means Marco will be with us forever, too, right?” 

“I'd like that,” I whisper, more for myself than anything, but Marco turns back to me, obviously having picked it up. 

“You would?” 

I give him a withering look. “What do you think?” I try to mask my blush with a scowl but when Marco grows pink, too, it's hard to meet his eye. “God, you're embarrassing.” 

“Sorry,” he says around a laugh, which makes him cringe, holding his side. “Ow.” 

I try not to smirk, resisting the urge to laugh with glee myself. “Are you okay?” 

“Never better,” he grits out with a smile. 

And I could blow him over with a kiss right then maybe if we were alone and he wasn't bruised up and in pain. Somehow, I refrain, brushing his hair from his brow. “You sure? Maybe I should call –“

“I'm really okay,” Marco assures me. “Just a little banged up is all. I'll be bruised for a while, but I don't need a doctor. Maybe I'll use the cane again for a few days, just to be sure. It's not the first time I've fallen, though, Jean. I've been through a lot worse. I promise if I feel worse, I'll let you know.” 

“Obviously you've been through worse,” I snort, rolling my eyes. “But I'm still going to worry.” 

I turn into his touch when he rubs a thumb over my cheek. I like this new development. Getting to touch him and being touched in return. It's safe and chaste but because it's in front of Leo, it's so much for us. Is it wrong to indulge in it so much? 

“Put that energy into Leo,” he tells me gently, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I need you to promise me, that even if we do this, I'm still allowed to stand on my own, and you too. We're strong enough to do it on our own, sometimes. We don't need to baby each other. You haven't babied me up until now, I don't want that to change. We're help each other, support each other, but we can't fight each others' battles.” 

I nod, pursing my lips. 

“Jean, promise me,” he says, squeezing my shoulder gently. 

It's the first time I've felt like the younger one between us. “I promise,” I mumble. 

“I promise you, too.” 

“But,” I say, taking his hand from my shoulder, squeezing it. “I want you to promise that we don't hide when we do need help, though. When you need me, you don't have to hold back. Promise me you won't pretend you're not struggling when you really are. And promise me you won't apologize for needing my help. You're not being a bother, you're not in the way... Promise me?” 

Marco nods, “Promise.” 

“Me, too.” 

“What about me?” Leo pipes up, crawling across the sheets. 

“You promise, too, brat,” I command, pulling him up onto my lap, feigning sternness. “You need to be a big boy and grow up strong, but when you need help, you can always come to me or Marco, okay?” 

“I promise!” Leo chimes, amused by the game. 

I grin, smoothing his hair. “The three of us, we've got each others' backs, got it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow finally after a zillion years, I update. Hi. Wow. I am addesin and I am writer trash. 
> 
> I'd like to thank all the amazing people who have given me kudos and read this story up until this point. Wow, I'm just really grateful for the reception Crutches has gotten up until this point and I'm still fucking waiting for someone to tell me I'm butchering this. (halp) But seriously, thank you so much. At this point I'm at over 5500 hits and 300 kudos which is just WOW. I never would have imagined that many people who give Crutches a chance so I'm totally blown away. You all mean so much to me so thank you again. 
> 
> Again, I'm sorry that updates are so spaced out right now. I'm a sad little uni student and I only have so much time to give to writing and that gets cut in half because wow I'm just tired all the time. I am trash and I am so sorry I'm not the most reliable author for this story. QnQ
> 
> (as per usual with me, I'll fix the probably ridiculous amount of typos tomorrow or something...)


	11. Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco learns he must deal with his demons.  
> (Marco's point of view)

Jean hums along to the radio, hips swaying and rotating absently in a sloppy figure eight. I can't help but stare at the swell of his ass in those tight jean shorts that cut off mid-thigh, revealing the light fuzz on his lean legs and that nice curve of his sculpted calves. Distantly, I note his slightly tone-deaf half-mumbles as he parrots the radio and Leo's delighted giggles while he sits on the counter, kicking his legs absently. Mostly, though, I appreciate the morning sunlight pouring through the window above the sink, bleaching Jean's already pale skin and bringing out the auburn undertones of his sandy blond hair.

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask sleepily, hobbling up behind him. My bruises are a sickly green by now, verging on a yellow that looks closer to a stain on my tan skin, but I've been relying on the cane since the tumble I took the other day. I try to tell myself I'm not nervous of falling again, but it sounds like a lie even to myself.

“Morning, birthday boy!” He chimes by way of a response.

Oh yeah.

He glances over his shoulder at me, smiling that crooked smile that I fell in love with the first time I met him, and I have a hard time not falling on my ass right here and now. The sunbeams bring out the gold in his eyes, and I find myself meandering closer, till he smiles and grabs my free hand to wrap around his waist.

I let out a content sigh before taking a deep breath. I'd been so distracted by Jean's energetic hips, I hadn't even thought to question the warm, doughy smell in the air. “You're making French toast?” I ask, lining myself up flush with Jean's back so I can glance over his bony shoulder.

“My mom always used to make them on my birthday, since I ate omelets every other day of the year. So I make it for Leo on his birthday. And now I'm making it for you.” He leans back against my chest, just enough to soak up my warmth, but thankfully not enough to throw me off balance.

“Thanks, Jean,” I murmur, not bothering to tell him that no one has ever done anything like this for me before. I'm sure he knows, for whatever reason.

“I'm gonna take care of you all day, and you're not allowed to complain once, ya'hear?” He doesn't look at me, just shakes the spatula at the overhead fan above the stove before he flips one of the slices of bread.

I rest the cane on the cabinets beside the oven so both hands are free to wrap around Jean's narrow waist, burying my face in his shoulder. “You don't have to do that,” I grumble anyway.

“No complaining, brat!” he scolds, flopping a finished slice onto a plate before dunking a new piece in the bowl of egg.

“I wasn't –“

“Ah!” Jean interrupts. “Zip it!”

I sigh, shaking my head.

“Don't worry, Marco!” Leo pipes up. “On my birthday we get to do all my favorite things, so Daddy is just gonna spoil you, too, probably. And I bet he'll kiss you on the mouth all day if you want!” Maybe my cheeks pink a little bit. Just a little.

I notice Jean watching me from the corner of his eye, and I turn my head to him a little more. “He will?” I ask, though we both know the question isn't directed at the five year old on the counter.

“Maybe,” Jean mumbles, letting his head fall back on my shoulder to give us better access.

It's just barely more than a peck, but it's enough to make Jean hum contently and leave me a gooey mess against him. I burrow myself against the crook of his neck and sigh, “Happy birthday to me.”

“Happy birthday to you,” Jean agrees, flipping the toast on the pan.

“I wanted to buy you a robot leg for your birthday but Daddy said no,” Leo notes abstractly and I kind of have to chuckle at that, which instantly cures him of the pout he's wearing. He beams at me and I can't help but smile back with my cheek resting on Jean's shoulder.

Jean shuts off the stove top then, flopping the last slice of French toast onto the plate. There's an inhuman amount of food piled up, but I'm certain the three of us will make our way through it. Jean divvies up the pile, placing one slice onto a small Leo-sized plate before splitting the remaining slices between us. After we've made our way to the table, Jean takes his time making up Leo's and my own plate with butter, powdered sugar, and maple syrup, and only once we're both content with our meals does he settle down across from me in the breakfast cove to take care of himself.

I chew my lip briefly as I begin cutting away at my breakfast, realizing maybe I could get used to being spoiled by this man. I'm just about to dig in when, distantly, I hear my phone ringing in the living room where I apparently left it last night. Without really meaning to, I kind of whine, slumping back in my seat.

I guess I don't realize how bizarre and immature my reaction is until it dawns on me that Leo had moved with me in perfect synchronization, his softer, childlike moan working in harmony with my own.

“I'll get it,” Jean chuckles, standing. Before I can protest, he's on his feet, squeezing my shoulder as he moves past me. On second thought, I don't know if I can handle this... He returns before I can think about it more, though, handing over the still unanswered phone, and seems a little tense when he tells me, “It says it's your mother.”

I should have known to expect a call from them. Actually, I'm surprised they called this late. Then again, it's Saturday, so I wouldn't be surprised if they forget about my birthday. And it's about that time, I note as I glance over my shoulder at the clock. I can just imagine my mother remembering as they're walking out the door for the Saturday church service. And insisting on calling even while Dad reminds her how much he hates how she talks on the phone in the car. I grudgingly pick up the call, clearing my throat before putting on my best Marco Bodt voice. “Good morning, Mom.”

“Happy Birthday, Marco!”

“Thanks, Mom,” I sigh, picking at my plate idly and pretending not to notice Jean's sharp eyes staring me down as he stuffs a large bite of toast in his mouth.

“You haven't called us in forever,” she scolds, and I hear the solid thunk of a car door slamming in the background. Yep, definitely on their way to church.

“Um, I've been kinda... preoccupied. Sorry,” I risk a sip of orange juice and lean back in my chair, realizing that I won't be eating the probably-delicious meal Jean just made for me for a while. Finally, I pull my eyes over to him, mouthing a second apology for him only.

While he shrugs understandingly, there's a deep, muffled voice in the background followed by my mother chiming, “Your father says hello and happy birthday, too.”

“Tell him thanks for me,” I reply dutifully, and wait as patiently as I can as she relays the message.

“So what have you been up to since we last spoke?”

“Um, nothing really.” I look at Jean, at his thin, pink lips, at his sharp shoulders and bony collarbones, that well-shaped chest and his delicate wrists. _I've been neck deep in the most beautiful man I've ever met, Mom, _I don't say. “Therapy has been going good, though, so maybe I'll be able to get a job soon...”__

“You really should get a job. Some structure will be good for you.”

I nod, forgetting the barrier that separates us for a moment. It takes a moment of silence before I manage to add, “Yeah, probably.” There's no use telling her that a job will do the exact opposite of help if I take on more than I can handle before I'm ready, that Levi reminds me of this constantly every time I complain about how slow things are going sometimes. It's better just to agree and let her get it through her system. Luckily, she doesn't press the issue.

“Well anyway, I was calling to ask if you were going to come home for your birthday.”

Home. It's funny that she calls it that. I haven't lived in in my parents' house in six – no seven – years now. “Um, it's a two hour drive, Mom...”

“Just come home for dinner, please,” she replies with that scolding voice of hers. There's no point in arguing now. Once she gets an idea in her head, there's no changing things. “Your mother hasn't seen you in ages.

I scowl. “Mom, I still can't drive.”

“Still?” she squawks on the other end of the line. “What's the point of that metal leg if you can't use it?”

“It's not the leg,” I mumble grudgingly.

Luckily, before I find a way to put into words my anxiety so my mother will understand, Jean's throat clearing makes me look up. “I could take you,” Jean offers, trying to appear nonchalant.

I blanch. “Jean, it's like a hundred twenty miles,” I whisper. Sure that's not a horrible distance in reality, but it does leave for an awfully boring car ride, followed by a tense, equally boring dinner, only to make the same drive back.

“Bring your friend, too!” my mom pipes in from the other end of the line.

“I-I don't know,” I say into the air for the both of them.

“You should see your parents on your birthday,” Jean tells me, a little stiffly.

I rub my nose, looking away, unable to tell him what's on my mind with my mother on the line. That our family isn't the same as his. We don't value each other the same way that his does. I don't have a family made up of people I love and want to be around. These are just the parents I was born with. I love them because they are my parents, but if they hadn't given birth to me, I doubt we would have much else to say to each other.

I know family is important to Jean, though I don't quite understand it, though it's different for me. But I can't bring myself to tell him, especially now of all times.

But the concerned look in Jean's eyes weakens my defenses. I shrug half-heartedly with my good side, telling my mother, “Alright, when do you want us to come over?”

“How does seventeen hundred sound to you?” She sounds satisfied, having won the battle we hadn't really been competing in. I realize for the first time how long it's been since I've had to address things in military time and it takes me a while to translate the numbers. At my parents' house, everything was in military time, but living like a civilian these past months has made me rusty.

“That's fine,” I sigh, after a brief pause, leaning back in the chair. “We'll be there around a quarter til.”

We end the conversations with the obligatory 'I love you's and I hang up, setting down the phone beside my plate with a heavy sigh. At least the call didn't last as long as I thought it would but it gives me a sense of dread to realize that only means further interrogation will ensue at dinner tonight. I don't think my food is quite cold yet, but it certainly doesn't look like the warm, delicious meal it had been when we first sat down. I sigh, cutting into the French toast absently before I notice Jean watching me with his head in hands, a small, crooked smile softening his sharp features.

I stall, thrown off for a moment by how dashing he looks, even with his bedhead and two-day old stubble. His brows quirk minutely and I sputter a little. “What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks grow warm.

“Nothing,” he hums, unperturbed. “Just watching you get all weird about your mom.”

I chuckle, maybe a little more darkly than I had intended. “You'll understand when you meet her,” I tell him. I purse my lips briefly. “My family isn't like yours,” I grumble at him, glancing down at my food as I finally take my first bite. It still tastes amazing, despite the wait, and I'm relieved. “Everything goes exactly how my dad wants it at all times. My mom isn't into the whole homely, domestic thing. I was home alone a lot as a kid. Everything is very private and disgustingly calm. We don't talk about things, don't even argue. Just...”

“Sounds tense,” Jean notes, before attacking his food again, stuffing his face eagerly.  
“Yeah,” I sigh.

He sneers. With a full mouth, he chuckles, “It must have been a shock, then. My crazy, dysfunctional mess of a family.”

“No, not at all!” I chirp, hoping to bring as much sincerity as possible into my voice. “I mean, yeah, it's different, but I like it. You all care about each other so much.” I can't help but smile, moving the syrup around on my plate. “I'm jealous.”

Jean beams proudly, big and lopsided and adorable.

I feel my pulse quicken and duck my head down over my plate to shovel in a mouthful. “Um, but seriously,” I garble around my bite before swallowing. “My parents are a little... weird.” Jean's brows rise, then furrow. “I think it would be better if Leo stays here. They, um, wouldn't react well to him.”

As I expected, Jean scowls. “What do you mean?”

I can't help but glance over at Leo, but am relieved to find him completely oblivious to our conversation, making a horrifyingly syrupy mess of himself. “Just that, well, especially my mom, it stresses her out to be around kids. It's hard to explain but, she expects a lot and not meeting those expectations pisses her off. I just don't think Leo would have a good time...”

Jean eyes Leo pensively before glancing back at me. Almost grudgingly, he nods. “I trust you,” he murmurs.

“Do you have someone who can watch Leo for the night?”

Jean purses his lips briefly. After a moment of silence between us, with only Leo's chewing to fill the silence, Jean sighs. He sneers at me, fingers spanning the table to mine again before speaking up, “Leo, how would you like to have a sleep over with Uncle Eren and Armin while Marco and I go on a date?”

* * *

A date.

I try not to let my heart leap out of my chest at the thought. Not a date, just dinner with my parents I try to convince myself. My parents, who have never once questioned my supposed heterosexuality. But I can't stop myself from shaving, gelling back my hair (which Jean reminds me yet again needs a trim), and blushing madly every time Jean lays eyes on me.

He cleans himself up well, too, though, which makes me feel a little better. Tidies the mess that is his undercut, shaving as well and wearing a tight, short-sleeve button-up that his chest fills out perfectly, making it hard to pull my eyes off of him. He fusses with his hair in every reflective surface he can find, flaky and forgetful for the next few hours as he tries to gather up some things for Leo to take with him to his sleep over.

I'm adding another sock to pad my residuum from the hard cup of my prosthetic which is decidedly looser lately when there's a heavy-handed banging on the door.

Eren lets himself in casually, followed by Armin. “Oi, Marco!” Eren chirps boisterously. “How are you, man?”

“Hi! Just a minute, guys,” I hum from my spot on the couch as I pull on my leg and give it a good stomp to secure it before pushing achingly to my feet, grabbing my cane. “I'm fine, how about you?”

As we exchange idle small talk while waiting on Jean and Leo to descend the steps, Eren offers me an eager handshake while Armin squeezes my flank on my good side, reaching up on his toes to kiss my cheek. I blush and sputter briefly until Jean comes in behind me, and the two greetings are repeated. I guess it's normal for them.

Leo clambers into our small group shortly after. “Uncle Eren!” he exclaims, latching himself to the smaller man's leg.

It's hard to keep up with everything that's going on for a minute as Armin chatters with Jean while he reaches down briefly to let Titan sniff his hand and reorient himself with the two newcomers, all the while Eren has taken on the temporary position of jungle gym, letting Leo monkey his way across his chest and over his shoulder, dangling precariously from Eren's thin but sure arms. Jean seems to trust him, though, paying him little mind. I purse my lips to bury a small smile as I ponder the fact that Jean will one minute seem to abhor Eren's personality, but trust him with his son – who he treasures above anything else – in the next.

“It's your birthday, Marco?” Eren squawks, bringing me back into the conversation. His big eyes seem more than a little wild, green-blue like the ocean and contrasting starkly against his sun-darkened skin. The way he grins brings about the makings of warm laugh lines in his cheeks, and he doesn't seem to have noticed or mind that I wasn't paying attention. I nod hastily and his grin widens. “Happy birthday, man!”

“You'll have to let us take you out for a beer sometime,” Armin hums. He's far more perceptive, though, eyeing me coyly like he knows all of my secrets.

“Uh, y-yeah, maybe,” I manage.

Jean chuckles at me, saving me with a lazy arm strung around my shoulders, though he's kind enough to spare me any weight to my bad side. “Marco isn't much of a drinker,” he informs the pair. His demeanor is friendly, casual even, but I can't help feel my cheeks heat up at his touch, my body desperate to melt into his.

While Eren raucously complains, Armin gives me that reading look, worried almost by my reaction. I don't think our eyes meeting during Eren's complaints is particularly attention drawing, but Jean's mouth makes a hard line, hand sliding down from my shoulder to my waist as he steps a little closer to me. It's almost predatory, but not vicious, more like a child staking claim on his favorite toy. He doesn't look over at either at us, choosing instead to let out a bark of a laugh at Eren's theatrics, but his hand rests on my hip, while he presses himself against my bad side, thankfully without putting any real pressure on it.

Armin's eyes flick between us, gears turning. After only a moment, his eyes widen only barely, the unspoken conversation between the three of us is enough to satisfy him, bringing the corners of his mouth to quirk for just a moment before settling again.

Eren seems completely oblivious to Jean's body language, as if the way Jean's fingers peak underneath the hem of my shirt, drawing along the flesh on my hip just above my shorts were completely normal, despite how it makes me tremble. I feel so exposed like this. It's not as if I'm naked, per se, but waiting for Eren or Armin to call me out at any moment for letting Jean crowd me for too long. But if Eren realizes anything is amiss, he doesn't show it, and Armin seems content to leave things as they are.

After a few more minutes of catching up, the pair head out the door with Leo in tow. Eren offers the biggest toothy grin I'm sure he can manage. “How does cake for dinner sound?” he jests loud enough for Jean to hear as he carries Leo on his back to the car.

Armin's intelligent eyes quirk at me, knowingly, but he still keeps his mouth shut. A gentle squeeze of my good hand is all I get before he's sauntering after the two children in his care. I wonder when he'll see fit to discuss whatever is on his mind, but it doesn't take long of knowing Armin to hypothesize he's taking the time to analyze the information in front of him before addressing the issue. I know he realizes that there is an obvious difference between how close Jean and I are, though. It's only a matter of what he'll say to us when he's ready.

We stand together on the porch and wave them goodbye until they're in the car. Once back inside, Jean bumps the front door closed with his hip and smiles at me, hands finding his waist. “They'll gossip about us after Leo's asleep, like the pair of old hens they are,” he chuckles, nose running along mine.

I hum, trying to appear impartial to that information.

“I wouldn't worry. Armin'll be happy at the very least,” Jean sighs contently, lips finding the corner of my mouth.

“Just... I've never done this before,” I grumble around his kisses, doing nothing to fend him off. Really, I don't want to. It's relaxing, the way he melt into me, chest flush to mine, arms twining around my waist to lace at my back. I can't mimic his action while leaning heavily on my cane but I use my good hand to draw a path down from his neck to his elbow. “I'm not really sure how this goes. What am I supposed to do?”

“Don't do anything,” Jean tells me, only mildly thrown off by my confession. “Just be how you usually are. Nothing has to change, just whatever you're comfortable with.” He releases me with a peck to the cheek and picks up his phone and wallet off the coffee table. I purse my lips, watching his hips sway minutely as he pads through the ground level, shutting off lights.

Nothing has to change?

“Then, you wouldn't mind if I asked you not to be so... open around my parents?” The way it comes out makes me cringe. I want to apologize but Jean surprises me.

“Sure,” Jean calls absently as he heads upstairs to makes sure everything is as it should be. “I know not everyone is cool with public displays of affection. I'll tone it down if it makes them uncomfortable.”

“Er,” I grumble, glancing out the window. “It's not so much the PDA as, um –” I suck in a breath, turning to the window fully when Jean trots back down the stairs with his shoes in hand, avoiding his sharp eyes. “– we're both, uh, men...”

Jean stops in the middle of balancing on one foot to pull on his slip-on sneaker. I can feel his disapproval biting at my back and don't dare turn around. Somewhere behind me, I hear Titan whistle through his nose at me. My anxiety must be peaking.

“You're not out with your parents?” His voice is slow, precise. I feel my heart give way. Somehow, I feel lower than dirt being scrutinized by him like this. I don't respond, but I think that's answer enough. Jean sighs, deep and disappointed in me. I hate this. “Marco, you're twenty-six now, don't you think it's time?”

“You don't understand,” I make myself say, gripping my cane a little tighter. I think about just five minutes ago, Jean's hand innocently resting on my hip, how harmless it had been. Then I think of my mom's fury when I would play dress-up with Ymir as a kid. It was only a dress... “It's not that easy.”

“They're your parents,” he retorts, volume rising. Maybe I flinch. I must have, because his voice drops when he inches closer, pleading almost. “They're supposed to be there for you, regardless. You shouldn't be afraid.”

There's no way I could explain the differences between our families in a way he can understand, I realize. Even with his dad, he still somehow thinks that parents are these strong beings who love unconditionally. But there's always a condition. For dad, it was growing up. For mom, it's being the man I was meant to be. I've already disappointed her once, I don't think things will just blow over if I do it again. I purse my lips, brows furrowing painfully as I try to think of a way to explain it to him so he'll understand. I can't come up with one.

When I don't produce a reasonable response, he grabs my wrist, tugging me around. “And what about me?” he hisses. “You're just going to pretend you don't feel anything for me all night? That's not fair, Marco. That's _cruel_.”

The smile itches across my face before I can stop it. I don't even know why it comes. Every other part of me is fighting the urge to sob but my mouth just can't seem to obey, curling up grossly at the corners. Somehow, I think it makes Jean darken further. I think he'll hit me, for all the rage boiling just beneath the surface of his thin body but instead he whirls around, hands going to his hair, tugging. I almost wish he would hit me. I know I could take it, but maybe it would knock some sense into me, push this fear from the forefront of my mind.

“I'm not going to be anybody's secret, Marco. That is not an option for me. It doesn't work. I can't put myself through that.” Clogged, distorted voice using every phrase he can fathom to tell me that I'm hurting him. I'm hurting him. Do his eyes sting as much as mine?

I run a hand through my hair, looking across the room, to the space between the couch and coffee table where we shared our first kiss. I'm a shitty person. A coward. I know that, and still, it doesn't help. Recognizing that I'm making a bad decision doesn't make it any easier to change.

Jean is breathing deeply when he turns back to me, jaw working around whatever phrase he's concocting next. “Please, don't do this,” he says carefully, surprising me. No more screaming, he goes into a dangerous state of diplomatic. Not Jean. “I'm not going to give you an ultimatum. I'm just going to ask you. I could scream and throw things, and I want to, but at the end of the day, this is your decision; you have to live with it. I can't force you into anything.” 

I hear the unspoken words, though. He can't force me; I can't force him. _I'm not going to be anybody's secret._

Even if it's not an ultimatum, it might as well be.

“Think about it, Marco,” he sighs, brushing past me to walk out the door, leading the way to the car. But once through the doorway, Jean effectively ends the conversation. Like it had never happened, he tells me, “We need to hurry up if we want to get there by four forty-five.”

It was never a date to begin with, but I feel my heart sink into my chest at the reminder. He called it a date. He called it a date, and I let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry yet again for taking so long with the update. I was supposed to update Thursday and just... ended up writing more than I thought I would about certain things so time didn't progress as far in this chapter as it was supposed to. Which means a few extra chapters I guess but whatever. Hehe
> 
> Happy late turkey day, since I planned to post this then but couldn't because I'm dumb lol.
> 
> Thank you again for all the kudos and comments and such, as always. I'm so happy people are still reading this even though updates are so slow. c: 
> 
> I'm super busy with school so that's all for now, but I hope you enjoy this chapter (not that it's a particularly happy one oops...). Thanks again for sticking with me, or for stumbling upon my dumb little fic c:


	12. Key Lime Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean regrets. A lot.  
> (Jean's point of view)

I’m being unfair. I know I am. At least part of me does. But I’m trying, okay? I know, I know that I can’t force him. And I know losing my cool only stresses him out more, but I’m too fucking old for this game. I’m not about to go back to sneaking around behind our parents back like we’re in high school or something, and I’m sure as hell not going to be ashamed of the person I’ve become, or let him take that downward spiral if I can help it. We’re grown ass men. 

And more than that, he has enough on his plate as it is. 

I glance over at Marco, his worried eyes trained carefully out the window, the look of defeat in his posture. He sniffs and adjusts his prosthetic with unsure, trembling fingers, but seems focused on slouching back in the passenger seat, head lolled weakly back against the headrest. 

I can only wish Armin were here. He’s always been better at this sort of think than I. Maye he at least could talk some sense into Marco. He’d say it in a way that Marco would understand, talk to him calmly, logically. He’d do better than screaming and tearing out his hair and… selfishly making it about himself. I huff, pulling my eyes back to the road. I know this isn’t about me, but… 

His apologetic smile, hurt and pleading and wordless, appears behind my eyes when I blink. I try to shrug it off.

I don’t want to fight with him. Not about this, especially. It’s his birthday, after all. Just this morning we were smiling, laughing. Kissing. He pressed me close to his chest and grazed his lips across my neck while he talked, kissed me gentle and innocent, interlocked our fingers across the breakfast table. I could look into his dark eyes and draw my gaze over the constellations of his freckles and he would blush and smile and it was sincere. 

_Fuck._

I’m not entirely sure I don’t mutter it under my breath.

If Marco looks over at me, I take special care not to tell, forcing psychological blinders onto my peripheral vision as the GPS mechanically instructs me that our exit is approaching. I flick on my blinker and use one hundred percent of my brain capacity to focus on changing lanes and most definitely not letting my eyes linger on Marco as I glance over my shoulder to triple-check that the right lane is clear. I don’t think I even breath until we’re slowly merging onto the ramp, a cluster of suburban real-estate comes into view around the bend, in between the hilly landscape. 

The GPS tells me to make a right at the upcoming intersection so I do, wondering if the way Marco slouches a little further into his seat is something to worry about. It probably is. I’m nearing that point of frustration where I just want to turn around, drive us back home, and forget the whole thing, but I guess I’m too stubborn for that, because I just keep following the GPS’s robotic commands and pretending I don’t see the worrisome way Marco fidgets as we get closer and closer to his parents’ house. 

The town seems a lot larger than ours once you get past the cluster of suburbia nestled on the outskirts but we spend very little time on the main roads before we’re directed east and into what looks like a toll booth. I pull up behind a navy SUV as its driver hands over something to the officer seated in the small kiosk beside the gate. Just as I’m turning to give Marco a questioning look, he begins shifting around in his seat to pull out his wallet, unfolding it as he hands it to me. When I’m finally able to pull forward and hand over his ID to the security guard, Marco leans over the divider without a word, incredibly close but still not touching me, not meeting my eye. 

The guy examines Marco’s wallet before looking over at us. He squints, and I worry momentarily if we won’t be allowed passage, before quirking his shoulders and handing over the wallet. “You must be Sergeant Bodt’s boy.”

“Yes, sir,” Marco replies dutifully as he slides his billfold back into his back pocket. I blink between the two of them. 

“Have a good night, Lance Corporal,” the guy says with dip of the chin.

It seems to catch Marco off guard, and he nods sharply in return. “Thank you, sir. You, too,” he responds sharply before settling back in his seat. 

I offer the guard a tug at the corner of my mouth briefly before easing into the gas, taking it slow through the much more winding road, trying not to let my eyes linger too long on what we find on the other side of the barrier. The base is like its own small town within a town. There are shops, a gym, something that I can only compare to a Wal-Mart without the big blue logo, even a school. 

I can’t help but realize that this would be a perfect opportunity for Marco to speak up, to tell me about this place, explain to me where exactly we are. And normally, he would, in his sweet and quiet way. But instead he keeps his hands in his lap instead of pointing out the buildings we pass. He keeps his eyes cast down. 

The GPS informs me we’re one hundred feet from our destination and I try to pull my mind off of the gaping wound between us. It’s about as effective as telling someone not to look down as they hang precariously from a cliff side. My mind races with desperate thoughts. This is our first fight. Is this a fight? Are we fighting right now? We’ve never really fought before. She and I… we used to fight all the time. We bickered constantly. But if she was a crashing wave, Marco is a gentle tide. 

“You have arrived at your destination.”

I’m grateful to be pulled from my thoughts, braking in front of a tidy little ranch house with a bright yellow door and shutters and rose bushes framing the façade. It looks like something out of a magazine, which I wasn’t expecting for a house on a military base.

“This it?” I ask. 

“Yeah,” Marco chokes. 

It’s the first time we’ve spoken to each other since we got in the car. 

Somehow, Marco looks a little green. 

“You grew up here?” I ask as I fiddle with the GPS app on my phone and Marco stares out the window.

“No, we didn’t move here ‘til I was seventeen,” he croaks. If things were different, he might have explained more. Told me about when they’d come here. Instead, he wrings his hands and makes a face. I hate this.

I sigh. “Hey,” I try to grab his attention. He only worries his lips over his teeth like he’s chewing the inside of his cheek. “Hey, look at me,” I insist, rescuing his left hand from the right, pulling it into my lap. Marco finally drags his eyes from the house, but he still grimaces, brows contorted grossly. I’m still angry with him, still angry about the situation. But looking at him, the mess he’s in… I turn a little more in my seat, squeezing his hand. “Don’t worry about it, okay? I get it.”

Marco opens his mouth, but I shake my head. “I get it,” I repeat before he can interrupt. “Forget all about it. I’ll still be here. I’m not going anywhere.” I risk pulling his knuckles to my lips for just a second, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t raise any protest. I run my thumb over the back of his hand. “Just forget everything I said, baby. We’ll worry about it another time.”

Marco’s brows twitch, the creases between them growing deeper before he wets his lips with his tongue. “Jean, I –” he starts, but he falters when I release his hand, nodding over his shoulder.

Behind him, the canary yellow door swings open and a thin woman who looks like she might blow away with the wind daintily tiptoes through the manicured lawn, waving at the car encouragingly. Marco frets, running his hands through his hair frantically before releasing the catch of his seatbelt. 

“I’ll get Titan,” I murmur, cursing myself for not kissing him. I want to kiss away all his worries. I should have kissed him before he left. But I didn’t. I scowl, turning off the ignition before I unbuckle myself and step out of the car. Titan lounges in the back seat, well behaved as ever until I pull the door open and he’s darting out onto the street. I have to take a few leaps to grab his harness as he rounds the car, managing to still him just before he sends Marco sprawling on the sidewalk, or worse, the impossibly petit woman that I assume is his mother. “Hey!” 

Marco himself is just shutting the door behind him, leaning heavily on his cane with one arm while the other reaches out to Titan. “Hey, Mom,” he sighs, letting his hand rest on the dog’s head as I take the initiative of hooking their harnesses together, fumbling briefly as I try to gain purchase of the clasp of Marco’s.

“Oh, what a pretty dog!” Mrs. Bodt trills, about to reach out for Titan. 

“Mom, please don’t,” Marco mumbles, grounding Titan with a firm hand on the leash connecting him with the dog. Marco rarely dismisses people from greeting Titan. He’s always seemed to like Titan familiarizing himself with others and socializing whenever we’re in a new setting before now. I’d always kind of assumed it was to make sure Titan was as comfortable as possible, so his full attention would be on Marco. And it helped Marco too. When he worried about Titan, didn’t let himself get stuck in his own head. 

But he’s stiff and so is Titan. The dog’s pale blue eyes warily shifting from Marco and his mother and back again, whistling minutely through his nose. He’s worried, and I can’t blame him. Marco stands rigid, a white knuckle grip on his cane, one of those disturbingly serene smiles creeping across his face. 

I purse my lips briefly before stepping out between the woman and Titan. “Hi, you must be Mrs. Bodt. I’m Jean.” I amp up the charm, hoping it’s enough to distract her from Marco’s obvious uncomfortable posture. I thrust out a hand, flashing my teeth for all I’m worth. “Marco’s friend,” I add as an afterthought. We’re just friends for tonight. I’m not going to make any trouble. 

She takes my hand firmly. Despite being head and shoulders below both Marco and I, she’s got a man’s handshake if ever I’ve felt one. “Caterina Bodt,” she chimes back. “Call me Cat.”

“Mom, let’s go inside,” Marco sighs, shuffling around me to head up the lawn toward the door. I beam, offering to let Cat take the lead. We trail after Marco, and I definitely don’t miss the way he’s trying not to rely too much on his cane. The broad expanse of his back once seemed so strong to me, handsome and statuesque, but now I can’t help but think he looks like a frightened animal, trying to puff himself up to seem larger and more confident than he really is. It’s always when he goes out of his way to seem casual and unfazed that he looks the most frightened to me. 

The inside of the house is just as carefully arranged and as the outside. The whole place gives off the impression of one of those home design magazine spreads, everything meticulously placed, with just the right amount of useless decor laid about. There are no muddy sneakers in the foyer or junk mail dumped on the small end table beside the door. I’m almost surprised not to see plastic covering the loveseat in the parlor just off of the main hallway. 

Titan sticks to Marco like glue, more so than normal. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this vigilant anywhere that isn’t highly crowded or out in the open. It reminds me once again how sick Marco is. Sometimes I forget, growing used to his quirks and anxiety, but seeing Titan’s hawk-like gaze scoping out the house, protectively putting himself between Marco and the rest of the room, it’s a glaring testament to Marco’s illness, his fear. Far worse though is the realization that right now, I’m utterly useless to him. I can’t be there for him like Titan is, can’t protect him like the dog. Not just because I haven’t been trained. 

But because he asked me not to. Because here, Marco wants us to keep our distance. To play normal, casual. Platonic. And I’d never realized until the label is thrust upon me how little that had described our relationship, even before I’d kissed him on the floor that first time. It’s only now that I notice how we’ve always naturally, unconsciously gravitated a little too close together. Let our eyes linger a little too long. I’d always been attracted to him and denied it to myself and everyone around me since we met. It took me so long to come to terms with it and now that I have to pretend I hadn’t fought tooth and nail with myself for him, I don’t know how to function.  
I don’t know how to function like this. And part of me is furious with him for taking away… himself, from me. After I’d worked so hard for it. I’m pissed at him. I shouldn’t have to put up with this. I shouldn’t. But I do, because he’s in enough pain without my help. 

I just keep repeating to myself that it’s just for tonight. That if I can make it through this dinner, I can have him again. Just a few hours before we can go home. 

Marco spares me a glance that bleeds with apology and terror before following his mother down the hall just a bit and through a wide doorway. If I hadn’t gotten so used to Marco’s subtle expressions, I might have missed it entirely, because it quickly melts into something akin to the cold kindness he offers strangers. Anyone else would have found it comforting, but I can tell when his sweet gaze is honest and when he’s faking it for his own protection. It’s all I can do to keep a scowl off my face and trail behind him.

The new room is the dining room, yet another soccer mom’s wet dream. Everything in the house looks brand new and name brand. This woman has probably never had to scour a thrift shop in her life. I shake my head, dislodging that deep buried inner catty, judgmental suburbanite that’s rearing its ugly head. Am I really about to hate a woman just because her design skills are better than mine? 

It might be more than that, I concede to myself, but still. 

At the head of the mahogany table, a much more Marco-shaped figure pushes to his feet, coming to greet us in the threshold. “Marco,” comes the cool appraisal as he stops before us. 

“Dad,” Marco all but squeaks in response. 

The best way to describe him is Marco aged up about thirty years, sans freckles, which have been replaced with a salt-and-pepper mustache. He has the same broad shoulders, dark eyes framed with black lashes. Deep crow’s feet track through his cheeks in the exact same places I can see them building on Marco’s face. I kind of blanch when the first thought that comes to mind is “attractive” and immediately shut down all lines of thought that lead to analyzing his father’s appearance. 

Still, it makes me wonder where he gets his freckles from, if not from his parents. Ymir has them, too, so they have to be genetic somehow.

“This is my… friend, Jean.” Marco’s voice cuts through the fog in my brain and I hastily throw out my hand, prepared this time for the impossibly strong grip of the elder Bodt’s handshake. Paranoia eats me alive as I wonder if that pause gave anything away. I don’t even want to hide this – hide us – and yet I’m quick to need our lie to be convincing. I can’t explain why. 

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say dutifully, ignoring that horrifying meet-the-parents vibe. One thing Marco didn’t inherent is the man’s presence. Marco’s soft edges and gentle aura lack any of the authority and prestige exuding from his father. I make sure any indication that I’m intimidated by him is hidden beneath my usual layer of unhealthy arrogance. Better to come off too confidant than weak, I figure, though it isn’t until now that I’ve ever reconsidered this attitude. 

“I’ll take the dog out back while we eat,” Cat offers as I move to stand beside Marco again, carefully measuring a safe distance between us.

Marco’s carefully constructed smile falls while his grip tightens around Titan’s leash, and though you can never be sure exactly how much Titan understands, the dog leans into Marco a little more as well, as if in protest as well. He’d already been practically on top of Marco to begin with, and it results in Marco having to shift around on his feet and lean a little more on the cane. “Titan stays with me, Mom,” Marco says carefully. 

When his mother opens her mouth in protest, Marco’s gaze falls but I can see how hard he’s fighting. His hands shake but he stands his ground, insisting, “I need Titan with me at all times. It’s important for my r-recovery –”

“But what about the carpet?” Cat interrupts. “I just want a peaceful dinner. What about –”

“Titan stays with me,” Marco insists, directing his desperation to the floor. It’s rare to see his anxiety so exposed. Usually a quite storm, Marco’s dark eyes are glassy, his knuckles stone white on his cane. 

For just a moment, I forget my vow to be well-behaved and distant. “Marco,” I soothe, placing a hand on his shoulder. He sucks in a breath but doesn’t say a word, but I count it a small victory that he leans toward me, if only minutely, just a hair to his right in my direction – even if I shouldn’t. I don’t dare check if either of his parents notice. I can’t decide if I just don’t care or showing them that I might would give something away, but I keep my eyes on Marco either way, letting my hand fall to my side after a moment. 

“Leave the boy alone,” Mr. Bodt says after a moment with a tired sigh, his deep voice ringing with finality. 

His wife looks like she might protest but seems to think better of it at the last moment. “Let’s sit and eat then,” she grumbles around a scowl. 

Marco deflates, laying low I guess after his outburst. He shuffles around the table to the other side, leaving the closest seat open for me. We settle across from each other while his parents take the adjacent ends. The spread between us is pretty standard. Baked steak and potatoes, with spinach salad and steamed carrots. Cat takes it upon herself to make everyone’s plate, and I prepare myself for a night of washing down bland food with stale tap water. 

I had kind of expected someone to initiate grace but Mr. Bodt begins eating as soon as his plate is before him, and Marco is quick to follow his lead. I wonder if he thinks about sneaking Titan small bites while the other two aren’t noticing. I would have. I set to cutting my steak, hoping for whatever it’s worth that it had at least been marinated. If it was, I can’t tell. 

“So Jean,” Cat chimes around a steamed carrot. I’ll give her this, they’re not too mushy at least, and not too raw. “What do you do for a living?”

I swallow my bite quickly, sparing just a moment for a quick sip of water. “Um, I’m a nurse,” I reply. “I work for, um, my son’s grandfather who is a family doctor back home.” 

She eyes me, no doubt questioning the unnecessary distinction. Not my father. Nor my father-in-law. But still Leo’s grandfather. I can see the gears turning in her head, but before the silence grows awkward, she pipes up, “Your son, how old is he?”

“He’ll be six in a couple weeks, actually.” 

“You must have been very young when he was born.”

“I was seventeen, yeah.” 

It’s been a while since someone balked at me, at my family, my son. But at least she recovers quickly and I pretend not to notice, doing my best Marco Bodt impression, and smiling pleasantly. I can feel his eyes burning into my temple, though I refuse to look at him. 

“Oh,” she hums, leaning away a bit. 

I can be charming if I need to. Watch me. My grin widens, and I chuckle. “Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit. All my plans flew out the window. But I don’t regret it.”

“And what were they, your plans,” Mr. Bodt speaks up for the first time, eyeing me from over his glass of water. 

I purse my lips, trying to recall. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about it. “I wanted to be a cop,” I say around a shrug. “Or a lawyer. I didn’t really have a chance to figure it out past that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Marco murmurs to his plate. 

Our eyes meet briefly as he glances up at me before he takes a bite of food and looks down again. I shrug again. “What about you?” I ask. “What would you have done if you hadn’t enlisted?” 

Marco’s eyes tell me what I already knew. I’m being mean. And it feels even worse while I’m polite and pleasant, playing his game. It’s much easier to throw low blows while being honest about it. 

“I always knew I wanted to be a Marine,” Marco lies as he stabs a carrot. 

I don’t call him on his bullshit, not here. But the looks we exchange both say that we know I would if we were anywhere else. It wears at my nerves but I don’t dare say that aloud. 

“I had always wanted Marco to follow in his father’s footsteps,” Cat tells her food sweetly. But her words quickly turned bitter when she adds, “Now I’m lucky he can walk at all.” 

My mask falters when I jerk to face her, and she’s briefly surprised to see the rage coloring my face. Luckily her attention is pulled away by the sharp, “Cat,” and the harsh look Mr. Bodt levels her with. I face forward to find Marco stiff as a board, his hands turned to fists around his silverware on either side of his plate. 

_Jesus..._

“What? I just think it’s disappointing,” She grumbles while sawing at her steak.

The rest of dinner is filled with underhanded jabs at Marco, who does fuck all to defend himself. She sneaks a few in on me as well but it’s not anything I haven’t heard before and I tough it out. Marco’s resignation to passivity pisses me off more than her resentment. It’s hard to battle it civilly, especially on my own. The best I can do is casually offer statements in Marco’s favor. Occasionally, I offer an offhand comment about how he helps out around the house and watches over Leo for me while I’m at work. 

Naturally, that backfires in my face when Mrs. Bodt makes note of the fact that my wife isn’t performing these tasks. 

My hand spasms, and Marco flinches visibly as my silverware clatters onto my plate. For the first time, he speaks up on his own, gently shifting the topic. I look at him gratefully and he spares me just a ghost of an apologetic smile. 

It’s much of the same for the rest of the meal, small digs much the same that I’ve grown used to since Leo was born, though they never sting any less. Marco tries to mediate when he can but he seems more of a pushover than normal now. 

When we finish eating, Cat pushes to her feet. “I made a pie,” she chimes. “Your favorite, Marco. For you birthday. We’ll take it in the den.” 

Mr. Bodt pushes to his feet, leading the way down the hall. Marco sneaks a scrap of gristle to Titan before following after him. We walk together down the hall. “Apple,” he mutters under his breath. I must have given him some sort of look because he glances over at me for just a second before looking down again and clarifying. “My favorite is apple.”

“I know,” I remind him as we enter the living room. We sit together on the pastel floral couch, a healthy distance apart with Titan doing his doggy barrier thing in front of our legs, laying right on top of Marco’s feet. He whines a bit before laying his head over his forelegs, and dropping his tail onto my sneakers. 

“Your mother is going to vacuum as soon as you leave,” Mr. Bodt notes as he sits in an overly plush arm chair, nodding at the dog meaningfully. 

“I know,” Marco sighs, leaning down a bit to rub Titan’s ears. 

His father nods thoughtfully, before leaving us with a bare moment of awkward silence. Then, slowly, “So how’s the leg?”

“Fine,” Marco replies obediently. Then, after a short breath, the statements seems to wear on him and, he admits, “Actually, I fell a few days ago, but I’m doing better now.” 

“Don’t tell your mother,” Mr. Bodt commands, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh. “I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Sorry,” Marco mumbles. 

I lean back on the loveseat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. Honestly, I just want to go home and curl up on the couch with my kid and my boyfriend. Right now of all times I call him that. My boyfriend… Is he my boyfriend? Are we boyfriends? Of course we are, but… it’s hard to think of it that way. Especially right now.

My inner monologue is interrupted by Mrs. Bodt entering the room with a tray of plates and drinks. Marco sits up a little straighter, putting on that well-trained smile that’s starting to look a little maniacal. On each plate is a dainty slice of key lime pie, and I don’t know who I’m angrier because of it. He doesn’t put up a fight. He doesn’t say a word and somehow that is worse than her obvious disregard toward him. 

Once Cat has finished setting out coasters and plates, she settles down into an identical arm chair between the one Mr. Bodt had resigned himself to. Before any one has a chance to touch the food though, Marco fists the edge of his shorts, stuttering out, “I have something I n-need to talk to you about.” His eyes flicker up to his mother, then his father, for once not smiling. Finally, he looks over at me, and my throat dries. 

Oh _fuck._

He purses his lips and for a second we just stall there, staring at each other. I don’t know if I’m trying to telepathically talk him out of it or thank him for it, but all it takes is his shaky, clammy hand going out to me and I latch on in an instant, pulling his hand onto my thigh. Our fingers tangle and whatever breath I’d been holding comes rushing out of me. 

Marco turns back to his parents and I hold my head high. The fuck do I have to be ashamed of? I refuse to let this be some sad high school cliché. I scoot a little closer to Marco so our knees bump and hope it’s not my imagination that he seems to gain some vibrato from my closeness. 

The silence hangs until finally Marco says carefully, “I didn’t think I was going to tell you. I thought it would be better that way. Safer. But… It’s not. And it’s unfair to do that to Jean.” He squeezes my hand. Hard enough that it hurts. But I can take it. “I know it will upset you but I can’t keep trying to hide from you. I –”

While Mr. Bodt leans back in his seat with a heavy sigh, his smaller counterpart leans forward. “This is a joke, right?” It’s then that I learn where Marco got that nasty habit of smiling like a lunatic when something upsets him because she absolutely beams at him. “Marco, sweetie, you’re _normal_.”

Marco falters. Only for a moment but I see it. I rub my thumb over his freckled hand as he sucks in a breath. “Y-yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I’m normal.” He shakes his head. “Mom, this _is_ normal for me. I’ve always –”

“Oh, nonsense!” She squawks. “You never would have done something like this before. You’re just vulnerable because you’re sick.”

“Excuse me?” I interject, my temper bubbling over at last. 

“Jean, please,” Marco sighs. “Don’t.” 

I frown at him but nod, shutting my mouth. 

“Mom, it has nothing to do with my… illness. Gay isn’t a symptom of PTSD. I’ve… always been like this. I just didn’t tell anyone about it. I didn’t know what you’d say…” Marco brings our hands closer to him, resting them on his thigh while he sorts out his words. “But... back home I have a little boy who thinks I’m strong and brave and… and I don’t want to let him down. I don’t want him to think I’m ashamed of his dad.” 

I could kiss him, but I don’t, instead eyeing the two older Bodts defiantly. 

“Marco, you’re not gay. You’re probably just confused. That sort of thing, I read that it’s genetic. And nobody in the family is a homosexual.”

Marco lets out a short, sharp guffaw, his patience wearing thin. It startles all of us. “Are you kidding me?” he snorts. It’s kind of freaky, to see him finally snap. “Do you think anyone would say anything if they were? With how you all act about it?”

“I don’t have anything against the gays, Marco,” Cat argues, putting up her hands in defense. 

“Oh, bullshit,” Marco hisses.

“Marco,” Mr. Bodt warns, for the first time speaking up. He seems resigned to watching the whole thing from the sidelines. 

“What about Historia? You were always so close when Ymir lived in town. I thought you would start dating,” Cat pleas. 

Marco glances at me, desperate, but I don’t know what he wants me to say. Finally he sighs, “Historia and I were never close, Mom. She was only nice to me so she could spend time with Ymir. Her _girlfriend_.” He goes rigid for a moment before letting out a huffy breath and looking down at our hands clasped together in his lap. “And Ymir was only nice to me to get away from Ilse.” 

I release his hand to draw my arm around his back, clasping his fingers with my free hand. Marco looks grateful but he doesn’t spare me anything more than a glance, and a faint squeeze of my fingers. It’s probably not the best idea I’ve ever had to offer him my affections, especially after he asked me not to, but he doesn’t stop me, so I’ll take that as a small victory. It’s not like we have anything left to hide any more after all. I rub small circles between his shoulder blades. 

Cat purses her lips, the same way Marco does so often, pensive for a moment before she curls into herself. “It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” she murmurs. “You’re so different since you came back. This isn’t you.”

“This is always been who I am,” Marco growls. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen him this angry before. Despite the tough exterior he’s trying to present, though, I feel him shaking like a leaf beneath my touch. “I can’t keep pretending to be something I’m not for you. I have someone who cares about me, who makes me feel whole for the first time in my life. And you have to make it about you. You always do this!”

His voice shakes when he continues. He finally crumbles under that wall he’d been trying to put up around himself, shrinking into himself, turning small and scared beside me. Titan pushes to his feet in front of us, whining morosely. “This isn’t about me being gay. This is about you not having control over who I am any more. It was s-stupid of me to think you would take this seriously.” 

“I’m just want you to be happy!” Cat exclaims, throwing out her hands. It takes a good measure of self-restraint not to roll my eyes at her hysteria. Purple tracks remove the foundation from her cheeks, revealing a smattering of freckles. “Why do you insist on fighting me at every turn?”

Marco’s jaw clenches before he whispers, “You don’t want me to be happy. Jean makes me happy, but that doesn’t matter to you. You don’t care how miserable I am, as long as I’m doing what you want.”

“Marco, you’re upsetting your mother,” Mr. Bodt interjects when all his wife can do is sniffle to herself. 

I glower at him, furious now. “And it doesn’t matter that she’s upsetting him?” I snarl. “What, so whoever cries first wins? It doesn’t bother you that he is so afraid of you that he felt like he had to hide who he is from you for how many years? Maybe you should spend less time questioning his identity and ask yourself why it’s taken him so long to talk to you about this.”

We stare each other down and I’ll be damned if I’m the first to look away. “Jean,” Marco warns, squeezing my hand but I hold my ground.

“I think it’s time you leave,” Mr. Bodt says slowly. 

I bark out a laugh, nodding, but Marco takes it much more personally. “Dad!” he protests. 

“Both of you,” he adds with finality. Marco leans back in surprise as Mr. Bodt stands. “You’re mother needs time to process this. You should go home.” 

Marco pushes to his feet, stunned. His eyes glaze over, and he quivers, like he might crack at any moment. It must finally be starting to hit him what he’s done. I pull him toward the door, refusing to let him break apart on me right now. “Let’s go,” I grumble, holding his hand in a final act of defiance. I grab his cane and herd Titan along with it, getting them both to the door.

Formalities be damned, I guide Marco out the door, relieved almost to be able to finally go home. He’s all but having a panic attack on his feet, based on how Titan crowds him and yips worriedly. I comfort myself with the thought that we’re home free, until Mr. Bodt hovers behind me, holding the door open. 

“Jean, a word,” he says, preventing me from shutting the door behind me. 

“With all due respect, Mr. Bodt,” I reply sarcastically. “I have nothing to say to you.”

He pauses for a moment and I think I’ll take the stall to pull the door closed behind me but he lodges himself between the door and me, forcing me to release it. 

_Fine,_ I tell him in my head. _Have it your way._

But as I’m turning to walk away, he speaks up again, “I just need to know if you love my son.” 

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

I turn on him, leaving Marco to stand there, helpless behind me. Forgetting for a moment, I forget that he’s a bigger and stronger than me, that he could probably beat my ass right here on this porch. “Are you really going to stand there and ask me that? You haven’t insulted me enough tonight?” I ball my fists, reminding myself that this is Marco’s father and a soldier. “If I didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation, I’d deck you.”

I turn on my heels, shoving Marco out into the lawn and down to the car, furious. The reminder of Marco falling apart in front of me pulls me back down to earth, though. I ignore the man behind me, focus on the one that’s mine, right here in front of me. Guiding him to the car, I rub his cheeks, checking for tears, and though my fingers come back dry, the way Marco’s eyes glisten in the luminescence of the street lights proves that might be temporary. 

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell him once we get to the car. I pull the passenger door open. Before stopping to cup his neck in my hands, pulling him down to my level. “You were so brave. Marco…” 

“They’re mad at me,” is his only response, fragile and tiny. 

“Hey, forget about them right now, yeah?” I sooth him, running my hands through his hair, drawing my thumbs over his cheeks. “You are so good to me, you know that? You didn’t have to do that for me, but you did. Marco, thank you.” 

Something close to him surfaces from the shell of a man in my arms. He kind of tries to smile, though it’s ugly and broken. I kiss him twice in quick succession. “I’m so proud of you, baby,” I tell him again. “I know it was hard. It’s going to be okay though. They’ll get over it. So just forget about it.”

“I... I just want to go home,” he sighs, letting his forehead rest on mine. 

“Let’s go home then.” I release him with a final kiss, this one between his furrowed brows. 

Titan whimpers and wails when I try to unlatch his leash and pull him away from the passenger door, but Marco rubs his head briefly and that seems to sate him long enough for me to put him in the back seat. 

From the road, there’s a pretty decent view of the picture window of the living room of the Bodt house. I can see the silhouette of Mr. Bodt, standing over the bowed head of his wife, saying _something._ I can’t help but watch until he walks out of the view again. I fumble through my pockets for my keys, shutting Marco’s door for him. As I’m walking around to the driver’s side of the car, I hear the front door open again. 

“Wait!” 

I glare over the hood of the car at the man walking toward me. “Just leave us alone,” I growl, but I don’t move. 

“I know you’re upset. You want to protect my son, I understand that, but please listen to me for a moment.” I shouldn’t falter but I do, giving him just enough time to stride around the car to stand before me. 

He sighs, rubbing his nose, as he looks back toward the house. “Cat will take some time. She’s stubborn. But I don’t have any ill will toward you. You’re a part of Marco’s life and a good one at that. I know you’ll protect him.” 

“Is that all?” I ask, yanking open the car door. 

Mr. Bodt blinks at me before sighing. “Yeah. Yes, goodnight. Drive safely.” 

“Of course,” I mutter, climbing in and slamming the door behind me. 

Marco watches me as I start the car. “Jean?” he murmurs. 

I wait until Mr. Bodt is up on the curb before I pull away. “Everything’s fine,” I assure him, offering him my hand. He gently entwines our fingers, nodding to himself before he leans back into the seat. This time he faces toward me, watching me as I drive, playing with my free hand absently. 

“I’m… I’m sorry I ruined your birthday,” I mutter when we finally pull out of the base. 

“You didn’t,” Marco assures me, but it’s hard to believe it. He doesn’t say anything else, just rubs my knuckles soothingly. 

“The night isn’t over yet,” I snort, hoping to lighten the mood. “I still have time.”

Marco kind of chuckles, eyes softening a bit. At the next red light, I lean over and kiss him again, ready to be home already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow so I finally finished it haha. I am so sorry for the awful delay. I'm not sure updates will come any easier but I'm hoping toughing out this chapter, which was really difficult for me will mean writing the next few chapters will be a lot easier. We'll see. 
> 
> Thank you to every one who stuck with me during this really frustrating break I took from writing. I definitely didn't enjoy leaving yall hanging but it made me feel so much better to receive comments and asks from people who missed this story and it definitely inspired me to write, even if it was just a little bit every few days. 
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who left kudos and comments. I'm at 11k hits now which is CRAZY. Thank you so much to every one who gave my little fic a chance, you have no idea how much it meant to me, especially while writing was so hard these past few months. I'm infinitely grateful to everyone who took the time to indulge my crazy notion that I can be a writer.


	13. Grenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which just when Marco thought things couldn't get any worse...  
> (Marco's Point of View)

I’m not sure if it’s just really bad luck or some sort of deity choosing today of all days to pick on me, but when my phone rings in my back pocket as Jean leads me through the door, I immediately know something bad is about to happen. It’s getting late, and I don’t receive calls often, even from Levi, and something in the back of my head warns me that no one would call me at this time with anything but bad news, but my body is running on auto-pilot at this point and I answer the call without even thinking to look at the caller ID. 

God, I wish I hadn’t.

“ _What did you do?_ ” 

That almost ever-present ringing in my right ear spikes, even though I hold the phone on my good side. Ymir’s shout is enough to make me wince and pull away a few inches. 

Her voice is hoarse, and I hate that I can recognize that exact timber well enough even through the phone. Jean’s voice wobbles and weakens when he’s crying. Leo’s rises in pitch. My only cousin’s voice rasps low and heavy, like she’s trying to hide it. 

Immediately, I know why she called. Why she’s upset. Guilt and shame creep up the back of my spine, tangling menacingly with the small hairs on the back of my neck that rise and quiver. I don’t really realize that I’ve let go of my cane until it falls against Titan’s side then clatters to the floor. 

“Oh, shit.”

Somehow, in my peripheral, I see Jean’s perplexed look. He watches me closely, even as he rubs Titan’s head in comfort and squats to pick up my cane for me. “Baby?” he kind of asks, leaning the cane against the door frame. He’s still impossibly tender with me, and for once, I don’t hate it. Right now of all times, I need it. I need him. I want him to save me again.

“Yeah, oh shit,” steals my attention from him, though, loud and sharp through the line. “What the fuck did you do, Marco Bodt?”

The first wave of ‘I fucked up’ had left me exhausted and heartbroken. Jean was the only thing that kept me from falling to pieces in front of my parents. The second wave of ‘I really, really fucked up’ hits me like a freight train of guilt, and the devastation makes me kind of stumble until I can lower myself into the couch. 

“Oh… shit,” I repeat stupidly, pressing the heel of my right palm into my eye socket. Hard. My head and chest ache.

Jean hovers over me in confusion, but my thoughts are racing and I can’t even spare him a glance, much less an explanation. 

“Is that all you can say for yourself?” Ymir bellows, like sending a rush of oxygen in to a furnace. But beneath the rage, I can hear it. She’s cracking. “You know, y-you may not want anything to do with this family but some of us actually have to spend time with these people on a regular basis!”

Faintly, I hear just beneath the gentle buzz of static, Historia’s soothing lilt. It’s strained but unintelligible. Whatever she says to try to reason with Ymir is lost to me from the other side of the line. 

“Ymir, I’m sorry!” I try to keep my voice down but it cracks with the effort. “I… It wasn’t on purpose. I didn’t mean to –“

Jean tries to interject with, “Is that Ymir?” But I’m too afraid of her wrath to answer him. 

Ymir’s reaching the end of her rope, as well, though she tries to hide it. “I-I don’t really give a fuck if you want to come out or whatever. It’s not like everyone else can’t tell just looking at your pansy ass anyway. But did you really have to d-drag me down with you? How the fuck am I supposed to… How am I going to… Fuck…” 

Her sob is muffled but still there. Again, I hear Historia’s voice, trying to console her somehow. 

“I’m sorry,” I keep saying. “I’m so, so sorry. I messed up. I messed up, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get brought into it. I just… I was just trying to be better.” 

I have to pull the phone away to save my ear, and even Jean hears Ymir throaty sob, “ _So you had to tell Cat about me and Historia?!_ ”

“Marco.” Jean can’t seem to place heads from tails, looking between the phone and me with alarm. 

I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know if I want to tell him anything. “It was an accident, Ymir. I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” 

“But you did,” Ymir says coldly, sniffling. And it’s almost kind of scary how diplomatic it sounds. 

I try to swallow but can’t. Lick my lips but it doesn’t help. It feels like I swallowed a grenade and I’m seconds from exploding all over the walls and the windows and Jean. All brain matter and blood and strings of tendons and tissue. I can picture every inch of the aftermath and hear the ringing in Jean’s ears as I self-destruct in front of him. I can see him pushed back by the force of me splattering all over everything. Hitting the dresser behind him and his head would splinter the mirror on the wall and bits of my pulverized skull cutting his face, lodging into his flesh, while the bone of my spinal column embed themselves into the window behind me. And as the pressure builds inside me, the idea of it actually happening becomes so much more real. I’m going to explode. I’m going to die right –

The impeding pain of Titan’s claws digging into my crotch interrupts my reason spiraling out of control as he forces himself into my lap, licking my chin anxiously. I wheeze, forced to let go of my intrusive thoughts as quickly as they had come. It all happened so fast, the thought barely registering before I had latched onto it and let it drown me. 

“P-please, Ymir –“ 

Before I can finish, Jean has yanked the phone from my hand, escaping out of my reach before I can protest, and I’m left paralyzed under Titan’s weight as he continues to assault me with nuzzles and laps of his tongue. 

“You need to calm down,” he say into the phone, a harsh but authoritative whisper. 

I can hear Ymir’s scream through the line. “ _Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down, Jean Kirstein!_ ”

“Do you think you throwing a tantrum is doing anything to help this situation? What exactly do you hope to accomplish by all this?” Jean hisses, cocky and almost scary in his antagonistic attempt at defusing the situation. “Put on your big girl panties and grow the _fuck_ up.”

“Jean,” I say helplessly, “You’re just going to make her madder.” 

Jean’s eyes flicker to me for only a nanosecond before he scowls and rolls his eyes, an annoyed huff shooting through his nose. Whatever Ymir is saying, Jean interjects with, “Don’t you ever get tired of being ashamed of who you are?”

“ _It’s not about shame, you ass! You don’t have to be related to these people!_ ” Ymir screeches through the line. 

“You’re right, I don’t,” Jean admits, though there’s no compassion in his voice. “But it’s _them_ who need to change, not you. And not Marco. And fucking molding yourself to fit their standards is no way to live.” 

I can’t hear Ymir’s response, only Jean interrupting her again with, “But it’s done. On your terms or not. Marco apologized. He can’t do anything more than that now.”

Before Ymir can get much of a word in edgewise, Jean’s voice is finally starting to raise. “No, _you_ listen. He is trying his fucking best, okay? He fucked up. You’re life isn’t over. Get over it.” 

“Jean, please,” I beg but Jean ignores me again.

He hisses, then after a short pause, “Ymir? Ymir?! Goddammit, that bitch.” Turning his back to me, he pulls the phone from his ear and fiddles with it before holding it up again. There’s silence, the faint tone of the phone ringing, before Jean growls, “ _Fuck!_ ” and begins messing with my phone again.

“Jean, please, stop!” I plead.

After a second call, he pulls out his own phone, making another call. This one picks up after a few rings. Whoever it is says something too gently for me to hear, and Jean finally turns around to lean his butt against the dresser against the wall, setting my phone down beside him. “She’s not going to hurt herself or someone else, is she?” He asks by way of greeting. 

“Is that Historia?” I find myself asking. Jean makes eye contact with me but doesn’t say anything, waiting for a response. 

“I know I’m not good with words,” he grumbles, like he’s being chastised. “I’m just being honest.” 

Another moment of silence, Jean sighing and looking away. “It’s not the end of the world, you know? She’ll be fine.”

The person’s voice – Historia’s voice, I assume – voice rises, but only minutely. Still not enough that I can understand it. I feel helpless, more so now than ever being left with one side of a conversation.

Jean’s eyes flicker with fury, the eleven lines between his brows growing more than ever. “You don’t think it was hard on him, too? It’s not like he did this to hurt her!” 

I find myself gently maneuvering Titan off of me, forcing myself to my feet, crossing the room to Jean’s side. I need to talk to her, to hear her voice, to apologize. My fingers grasp at the fabric of Jean’s sleeve, my nerves making me hot, sweaty almost. I feel a little sick at this point, but I don’t know how much of that is just the thing lodged in my throat, and that head rush you get when you’re about to cry. “Can I talk to her?”

Jean eyes me wearily, cautious almost, but after a moment, he sighs, mumbling into the phone, “Here.” He hands the phone over while, reaching for me, faltering, then turning away from me with pursed lips and a tense poker face. 

“I-I’m sorry,” I kind of whimper before clearing my throat to try and dislodge whatever is blocking up my breath. “Can you tell Ymir? I really wasn’t trying to… to –“

“I forgive you, Marco,” Historia says gently. “But Ymir is going to take some time. You and Jean need to give us some space to figure this out, okay?”

“Sh-she hates me now, doesn’t she?” I more ask myself than her, but the question lingers.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Historia soothes. “She’s just upset. Just give us some time, okay?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” I whisper hoarsely. “I knew it wasn’t going to go well but…”

“Ymir doesn’t really seem like the kind of person to not be honest about herself, does she?” Historia asks instead of responding, and her voice wavers like she’s holding back a strain. She’s always been the toughest out of any of us. “But she always has been afraid of how your family would react to us…”

“She just wanted to protect you,” I murmur, “both of you.” 

“I know,” Historia sighs. “But I’m not scared of your family. I never have been. At least they weren’t like… like the Reisses.” 

“I guess not,” I murmur, trying not to linger on memories of a bruised and battered Historia who insisted on being called Krista in high school. I wonder if Jean knows why she rejected her birth name for so long. “Just…”

“Just a lot of expectations,” Historia finishes for me, ending with a small sigh. “Listen, Marco, when she’s ready, I’ll have her call you. Just let her calm down, and when she’s ready, you can talk. Sleep it off, for now, okay?”

“Yeah.” I can only agree at this point. There’s nothing I can do to fix this. I wouldn’t know how to even if I could. 

“Happy birthday, Marco,” Historia murmurs. 

“Thank you.”

“Bye.” 

 

Jean looks at me over his shoulder as I end the call, and though I expect anger and that storm inside him rumbling, he looks more like a kicked puppy. Before I can say something, he turns back around. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed,” he huffs. 

He’s ready to head upstairs without me, ruffling his gelled up hair so it lays in its usually messy tufts, but I grab his wrist, stopping him. I’m not sure what exactly what I want to say, but it feels wrong to leave things like this. I feel so wrong right now. Jean sighs, turning, gently tugging his wrist from my grasp until our fingers clasp. 

“I…” Jean chokes out after a moment of silence between us, but seems to think better of it. “My bad,” he corrects himself. “Would you like to stay in my room tonight?” His thumb rubs over my knuckles gently as he steps into my space, breaths against my jaw. We don’t meet each other’s eyes and I’m not sure if one of us is avoiding it or if we just don’t need to right not, to understand the shift between us. 

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” I find myself admitting. 

Jean nods, squeezing my fingers before releasing them, leading the way to the stairs and flicking off the living room light as he goes. 

There’s a weird space between us, something I can’t identify. A weird mix of guilt and hurt and desire. It pools in the cracks and corners of the room, making everything foggy and making my breath shallow. I’m not freaking out but I’m not okay. Mostly, I just feel empty. I follow after Jean, more gravitating towards the warmth he promises than consciously walking behind him. 

Titan bridges the gap between us, looking over his shoulder after me about half way up the stairs, while Jean continues without looking back, disappearing down the hall. Forcing my feet to move is like trying to walk through quicksand but I trail after him finally, making my way up the stairs. While I take each step one at a time, Titan sticks close to my side, nosing my fingers and nudging his head under my hands, offering his own small form of encouragement and comfort I suppose. 

Jean’s room at the end of the hall pours out a long stripe of yellow light into the dark hall, the door cracked a few inches. I can’t see Jean from just that narrow space, don’t know where he is, but I’m sure he knows exactly how close I am based just on the solid _thunk_ my prosthetic makes each time I take a step on the hard wood floors. 

When I finally push the door open, Jean is waiting for me on the ledge of his bed, already undressed and wearing only a white undershirt and his boxer briefs. We eye each other, but suddenly being around him is awkward in a way it’s never been before. I try to ask, “You don’t mind Titan in the bed?” to defuse the strange heavy air bearing down on us, but Jean stands, ignoring me. 

He moves to take my hands, pulling me back to the bed, sitting me down. When he settles down beside me, lacing his fingers with his elbows on his knees, I find myself saying, “You didn’t have to be so rough on her.” 

I’m not sure at first if he’ll know what I mean, but Jean just sighs. “I know,” he says, though there is little compassion behind his voice, and I’m not entirely convinced that he does. But after a moment, he straightens out, rolling his neck as if there’s tension building there. After another few seconds of pursing his lips, he says again, quieter this time, “I know.” 

“Y-you were trying to protect me,” I surmise, slumping. “But I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“I know,” Jean repeats. “I… I guess I did it for myself.” I can’t think of anything to say to that, but after another pause, Jean adds, “If… if I hadn’t asked you… you never would have brought it up. If I hadn’t… none of this would have happened.” He looks at me, makes to reach for my face but seems to decide better at the last moment, lowering his hand. “She was yelling at you when she should have been yelling at me.”

“It’s not your fault,” I murmur, taking his hand, pulling up to my face. It seems like the right thing to do. 

“You know that’s not true,” Jean retorts. Before I can respond, though, he adds. “I don’t want to hide how I feel for you. And I don’t want you to hide what you feel for me. But going about it this way, it wasn’t smart. I was… being idealistic and stupid and I should have known better.” 

Maybe I’m idealistic and stupid for wanting to believe in the things he tells me, for wanting to follow his lead, but I know for a fact that those aren’t words that describe Jean. I can’t think of any way to tell him so, so instead I kiss him. He makes a weak noise when I press my tongue against his lips, seeking entrance into his mouth, but he grants it, pulling my hand around his middle, bringing me close to him.

“I just want you to hold me,” I pant around his mouth. “I want to forget about today. Please.” 

Jean nods, his brows furrowed and his expression dark, but he grants me this at least, reaching to still my jaw so he can kiss me back, deeply. I feel like I’m turning to pudding against him, letting him take control, until he slips his fingertips beneath my shirt, letting them graze the sensitive flesh of my side, and then suddenly I’m a live wire, tense and pulsating. He growls softly at the weak noise I let out. 

It’s wrong to try and distract myself from my pain with my lust for him, I think, somewhere in the back of my mind. But all I want right now is to feel him against me, to forget everything that’s gone wrong today and just be with him, just the two of us. 

And I don’t know what it is, but something feels different about this time. As many chaste kisses we’ve shared and desperate make-out sessions in hidden crevices of this old house, Jean’s never dominated the flow like he does now. As sexy as he can be, pulling me between his thighs, begging me for sweaty intimacy when Leo isn’t watching, this is something different entirely, something I didn’t know I liked in him until now. I like exposing his gentler more vulnerable side, liked him needy and begging. It makes me feel powerful and in control, of something in my life at least. But right now, I don’t want power or control. I want to be taken care of, to feel safe, and Jean offers that, with deft lips that that press to my throat and sure hands pushing me back on the mattress. 

He pulls my shirt up under my armpits, caressing my sides, making my abdomen spasm as he slowly works his way down my throat, leaving a wet trail in his wake. My hips twitch, as he draws his fingers on the tender skin just above my belt, teasing me with the anticipation of his fingers making their way underneath.

And just as he reaches to unclasp my belt, pulling back to look at me with impossibly intense, blown out eyes, the bed creaks under new weight as Titan jumps up onto the mattress from the other side, making me jump, making Jean scowl. Titan pants, unaware, but Jean cusses under his breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge a heavy fog. Something in the air dies off, and that deep, dominating side of Jean kind of melts away. 

“Jean?” I ask, when he sits up, turning away from me, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “You don’t want to anymore? Is it because of Titan? I… I can, um, put him in the hall… I could…” 

Jean sighs, resting his fists on his knees. Finally, when I push up to sit beside, pulling my shirt down, he murmurs, “I just… Today was really rough on you.” He clears his throat, but continues, looking up at me, imploring me to understand with his eyes, “And that’s not your fault. But, I think it’s better if we wait for this. I don’t want to mess this up, and as much as I wanted tonight to be our first time, after everything, I don’t know if you’re ready. And if I’m being honest, I don’t think I am either.” 

I scowl but it’s impossible to argue with the way Jean looks at me, worrying his lips between his teeth. “I… You’re probably right,” I admit, looking down. I want him. So badly. Especially right now. But he treasures me, and that means more than any physical feeling we could share between us. I try to offer him a small smile, to let him know I understand that. “Thank you.”

Jean tries to hide the sigh of relief he lets out but I hear it, soft, through his teeth. He stretches up to kiss my forehead, right above my brows, and replies, “Don’t mention it, sweetheart. Let’s go to bed.”

I nod, looking over my shoulder at Titan curling up at the foot of the bed, and it tugs up one corner of his mouth. He seems more relaxed in this room than either of us. At least some one is. After Jean stands to turn off the lights, I pull off my left shoe and I’m about to reach down to unclasp my prosthetic from the sleeve when Jean gently brushes my hands out of the way.

“Let me,” he murmurs, kneeling before me, reaching under the carbon fiber shell to press the latch and slide it off my thigh. Something about this is far more intimate than anything we’ve done before and I’m glad we sit in darkness so he can’t see the fiery state of my cheeks, as he reaches beneath my shorts to roll down the liner and socks I use for padding all in one go. 

“You don’t have to,” I tell him.

“I want to,” Jean retorts, and I can hear the smile in his voice. Not his usual cocky sneer. Something gentler. 

Giving up fighting him, I try not to shiver when his fingers brush the inner part of my thigh and let him run his hands along my residuum reverently after he’s placed the pieces of my prosthetic aside. “Jean,” I beg, covering my cheeks with the back of my hand despite the darkness. 

He ignores me, pressing a small kiss to the top of my scarred thigh, pushing my shorts out of his way. He moves between my thighs and I don’t fight him, letting him pull my shirt over my head. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t undress me anymore, but he presses one last kiss to my lips before he pushes too his feet and climbs in bed.

* * *

Despite falling asleep with my head on Jean’s chest, I wake up yet again spooning him, Jean’s head cradled in the crook of my arm, his back pressed against my torso. Warm sunlight pour through the blinds, casting stripes along the rug and up onto Jean’s side of the bed. It’s early, but closer to noon than dawn. We slept a long time for going to bed so early. Despite that, I huff and let my head flop back onto the pillow.

“I know what I said last night,” Jean pipes up, voice clear to prove he’s been awake for a while. He turns in my arms so he can look over his shoulder at me. “But you’ve been poking me for a while now, and my self-control is wearing thin.”

I blush, caught in like a deer in the headlights in the liquid gold of Jean’s dilated eyes, realizing only now how hard my dick is. Jean smiles, but his expression is hungry. “Tell me not to kiss you,” he murmurs huskily against my lips. 

And though I should, I’m just sleepy enough that I don’t. 

It’s different than last night. Jean is relaxed and in a better mood, which I don’t mind. He kisses me, but seems content to let me lead. It’s nice. He hooks his leg over my hip, so our erections slot together, and I find myself rolling on top of him, fitting between his thighs nicely. 

“I thought you said you wanted to wait,” I pant as he reaches beneath my boxers to scrape his nails along my ass and mouth at my jaw. I’m getting better at this. More experienced. 

“I do,” Jean responds hoarsely before sealing his mouth around mine again. But he doesn’t stop himself, rocking with me, moaning, hooking his heels behind my back to keep me close. “I do, fuck.” He kisses me deep and wet but still manages to say, “I want our first time to be special.” 

I nod, but neither of us stop. Not yet. Not until Jean gains some semblance of sanity and breaks for air, tapping my shoulder spastically like I had him in a headlock and not a kiss. “W-wait! Waitwaitwait!”

Only then do I roll off of him, as much as I don't want to, flopping on my back in exhaustion. 

“This is torture!” Jean informs me, panting wildly, going completely limp.

I chuckle in acknowledgment. 

We lay there in silence for a few relaxing minutes until finally, Jean achingly rolls onto his side. He bushes my bangs off my forehead, caressing my hairline as he looks at me pensively. “You doing okay, pretty thing?” he asks somberly, shattering whatever semblance of a fantasy we had created for those short moments where we could pretend yesterday didn’t happen.

It’s not like expected that to last, anyway. I look down, cupping his palm as his fingers reach the end of my sideburns, pressing it to my lips in some sort of kiss, nodding. “I’ve lived through worse.” 

Jean seems far more troubled by that than I had hoped. He pouts, pushing up onto his elbow. “Only you could say that and not have it be a figure of speech.” I blink, feeling a little patronized as he uses that chiding tone he uses on Leo sometimes to tell me, “It worries me, because I honestly think you believe that means this – all of this – isn’t allowed to hurt you. Marco…”

“I know what you’re going to say, but I’m going to be fine, I swear,” I argue. I want to get better. I want to feel better. Dwelling on it, falling into the same patterns that put me here in the first place, that won’t fix me. 

“Not if you keep pretending it’s not a problem,” Jean snarks back. His eyes darken as he pulls his hand away and it turns into a fist between us. “You were moments away from a full blown anxiety attack last night, Marco. Twice.” 

“And you pulled me out of it, Jean,” I remind him. If I’d done it alone, maybe I’d still be a husk of myself, spiraling out of control. But I wasn’t. “I’m fine, really.” 

“You drive me crazy!” 

“I don’t want to argue any more this weekend, please, Jean.” 

Jean groans, flopping back onto his back with an exasperated flail of his arms. I’m not trying to make him angry.

“…I’m sorry,” I murmur after a moment of silence.

Somehow, that only seems to illicit more anger from him. Jean rolls away from me and sits up to put more space between us, snapping at me as he goes, “Don’t fucking apologize for telling me how you feel, you prick.” 

“B-but you’re upset with me,” I fumble, unsure of what to say to fix this. If he doesn’t want an apology, then what does he want?

“I’m not upset with you!” Jean barks over his shoulder, but still refuses to face me.

“You sound upset,” I say helplessly.

“I always sound like this! This is just my voice!” Jean pushes to his feet and I sit up, moving to follow but with only one leg, I can only wait helplessly on the ledge of the bed as he storms to the window. 

“You know what I mean,” I retort as he turns on his heel to return to the bed.

 

Looming over me, he throws his hands out, shouting, “Well you’re being an ass.”

I don’t know what I did to fuck thins up this badly. I feel so helpless like this, stuck here, while Jean clambers around, exerting his ability to move over me, dangling that freedom in front of my nose to mock me. A more logical part of my brain knows he’s not doing it on purpose but I just feel so broken when he does this. When he stands over me and tries to make me feel small. “C… can you please not talk down to me like that… It makes me uncomfortable,” I find myself whispering, looking down at my hands.

Jean’s silent for a moment, frozen. After a moment, he kind of grumbles, and eventually settles down on the edge of the bed, folding his hands between his legs. But he doesn’t look at me, face carefully trained on the window, mouth sealed in a heavy scowl. 

After the heavy silence between us grows uncomfortable, I try again, “I’m sorry…”

“Stop apologizing!” Jean’s eyes flare as he glares at me.

I flinch and Jean frowns again, looking away sharply.

We both wait for the other to speak but Jean seems content to stubbornly wait it out and I’m too afraid to screw things up again to open my mouth. Eventually though, Jean surprises me by murmuring, “I don’t want to fight either, you know. I’m just worried about you.” He pauses, wringing his hands. “A-and I’m not mad at you. I’m just frustrated with myself because this whole train wreck could have been avoiding if I hadn’t pressured you. I knew it wasn’t fair to you but I did it anyway.”

“Jean, you were right, though,” I disagree as gently as I can. 

“No!” Jean argues. “No, I wasn’t. I was being selfish. I pitted you against your parents even though I didn’t know your situation with them. I endangered your relationship with Ymir –”

“Jean, I did that,” I soothe, freeing his hands from each other by keeping on close to me, scooting closer to him so I can get a better look at his face. I don’t want him to think any of this is his fault. It was never his fault. I never should have let him think any of this was his fault. I was just too shell shocked last night to stop thinking about myself last night. “These problems all existed long before I even knew you. Meeting you was what gave me the courage to finally confront them. I couldn’t have done this without you. And I was the one who fucked up with Ymir. I was just so frustrated with my mom, I said things I shouldn’t have. That’s not your fault.”

“Still…”

I shake my head to silence him. “Jean, I’m telling you that I wanted to do this for you. And for me. I should have ages ago; I was just scared. But I really do want you and Leo to be proud of me.” I’d been so broken last night, so insecure and freaked out that I’d forgotten what made me decide to listen to him in the first place. I brush gently maneuver him to face me. “Tell me you’re proud of me?”

“I am, Marco, I really am. So proud. I just wish I could have made it easier for you.”

“I don’t want to take the easy way out and risk losing you two,” I tell him, looking down at my hands, clasped around one of his. I should have told him, if I’d known how he’s been blaming himself. Thinking about all of this over dinner last night, not being able to tell him, not being able to get close to him until I fought for this position. “I know I’m a coward, but I want to be better for you, and for Leo.”

As I peek up at him, Jean’s smile is something between that arrogant sneer and something sad and concerned. “God you’re cheesy! What am I even supposed to say to that?” He pulls his hand away, but only so he can climb closer to me, pushing me back so he can climb into my lap.

“Nothing,” I offer. “Just kiss me.” 

Jean kind of chuckles humorlessly, brushing his lips along my brow, labelling me with, “Nerd,” before he ducks down to press his lips to mine. It’s the slow kind of kissing, the kind without lust or desire, just comfort. Just intimacy. Jean nuzzles his nose into my hairline, draws his fingers through my hair, gives me fifty reasons to bring him closer to my chest, to squeeze his hips, with each gentle peck along my face. And maybe it’s not a declaration of love to worship each other like we do, but it’s something pretty close. 

I’m content to stay in bed with him all day, but our moment is interrupted, as usual, this time by the clamber of the front door slamming downstairs. I about jump out of my skin, and probably would have without Jean on my lap, but he only cusses under his breath just seconds before a voice that I recognizes as Eren’s calls through the house, “We’re breaking in. Get decent, you freaks!”

Jean cusses again, leaping out of bed to scramble for some clothes. “Shit! What times is it?”

Downstairs, feet pound through the house as Leo squeals and Eren chases after him, continuing with his taunts of, “You better be dressed when I get upstairs or I swear to god I will tell everyone you know.” 

Somewhere, I hear Armin less boisterously scold, “Eren!” 

“Tell everyone what?” Leo pipes in, already at the foot of the stairs.

Eren begins to jeer, “That your daddy and Marco are –” 

“ _Eren!_ ”

Jean is still hopping around, trying not to fall as he struggles into a pair of sweatpants, but pauses only to ask me, “Are you going to be alright on your own?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Go,” I tell him, still sitting in bed, half present and alert, half still dizzy with Jean’s intoxicating kisses. 

Jean jogs to my side, leaning across the bed to peck my cheek before racing out of the room with his shirt on backwards, his heavy footsteps joining those on the stairs. Somewhere on the stairs, Leo squeals, “Daddy!”

I can’t help but smile as I hear Leo’s raucous giggles as Jean exclaims, “Hey, little monster! What shenanigans did you get into?” 

Their voices reach more reasonable volumes as Jean leads them back downstairs while I fish around under the bed for my leg and get dressed in yesterday’s clothes, for now at least. I make a pit-stop in my bathroom to take my medication before heading downstairs where Jean is whispering hurriedly to Armin while Eren rolls around on the rug with Leo. Titan, who had been sleepily trailing behind me trots up to greet them while Jean leans away from Armin, with the look of a kid caught stealing from a cookie jar. 

“Morning,” I hum, pretending I don’t notice the eyes of the three adults in the room on me as I walk past, heading into the kitchen. I try not to let it make me paranoid but it’d be a lie to say anything but exactly that causes me to flee to the fridge instead of offering a real greeting. 

I’m pulling the orange juice out of the fridge when Armin appears beside me, seemingly walking out of thin air. I jump, sloshing about the carton while Armin smiles pleasantly in that eerie way he does, like he knows all your secrets. Then again, I’m pretty sure he does. Or all of mine, at least. 

“Jean told me about last night,” Armin admits without preamble. 

At this point, I shouldn’t even be surprised, but I still almost choke from drinking straight out of the carton. There isn’t really much I can say, so I put away the orange juice and kind of nod. Despite listening to me, despite understanding, Jean’s still worried. I can’t be angry with him for that, but I still find exasperation making me let out a short sigh. 

“You’re going to tell me you’re fine and Jean needs to stop worrying,” Armin says for me, leaning against the kitchen island with his legs crossed in front of him. He’s not going to let me leave without listening to him. “He’s never going to do that,” Armin informs me, with an understanding, if not pitying sort of smile. “He’s a dad. It’s what he does.”

I find myself leaning against the counter with him, resigned to Armin’s – as Jean calls it — “mental mambo jumbo”. 

“I know,” I admit.

“He’ll get it out of his system, eventually,” Armin offers. “But can you humor us and lend me an ear.” 

I sigh, nodding. 

Armin smiles, pushing himself up to sit on the countertop. “All I want to say is, we’ve both been there. So we know it’s not something you get over. Not overnight at least. And your whole shutting down thing, it does more harm than good, trust me.”

I open my mouth to protest, but Armin, silences me with the most pleasant and sympathetic look. “You’ve already got a therapist. I’m not here for that. Just, if you ever run into something where you’ve got nowhere else to go, if you ever need someone in your corner, I’m here okay? The Jaegers are family, Marco. As long as you’re with Jean, as long as you need me, you’re a part of that.”

I purse my lips, looking at my shoes, reminded of Jean’s insistence that we’re family now. I don’t know if things will ever get better with my parents. If they can forgive me for this. But it feels like a weight off my shoulder to be told I’m not alone by someone else besides Jean. “Thanks, Armin.” 

“Jean isn’t asking me to do this. He wants me to make sure you’re okay, but I want to be your friend, Marco.” 

I can only nod.

“Let me give you my number,” he adds, popping off the island to stand in front of me. “You don’t have to feel obligated to text me or anything. It’s just in case, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jean, you are exactly zero help when it comes to trying to deescalate a situation. 
> 
> WOW WELL THAT WAS A FUCKING DISASTER AMIRITE?
> 
> (Also I am really sorry this chapter had not one, not two, but three cop-outs for no sexy times haha but can you really blame me like this is really not the best time ;_; )
> 
> Friendly plug that Ymir has every right to be furious and this situation is not resolved, please just ya'know give me some time to conclude this subplot it's not going to be a just slap a band-aid on it kinda thing.
> 
> Wow holy crap though I survived the semester and cranked out a chapter in like a couple days right after like wtf why couldn't I do this while classes were going on??? It's not even that hard like what man what's the big deal??? r IGHT??? (this is a joke my life was falling apart this semester please don't be mad I'm sorry for the long gaps between chapters, really.)


End file.
